


a place in time

by twistedroses



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, The 4400 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedroses/pseuds/twistedroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma's an agent working to reunite missing people with their families when the biggest missing persons case of all time appears in front of her in a flash of bright, white light. Thousands of missing people from throughout history, including one particular pirate, appear on the shore of a lake in the middle of winter: none have aged a day since their disappearance and, with no memory of their missing time, must venture into a strange and uncertain future. Loosely based upon the TV show 'the 4400'. A part of the 2016 CS Big Bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter i

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by the TV show 'the 4400' but I actually never finished the show so I just really took the premise of it and went my own way with it. Edit: I should also mention that it's not a requirement to have watched the show, or to even know what it was about to understand this fic!

Killian Jones is uneasy.

And it’s seemingly for no reason. The streets near Boston Harbour are quiet, most patrons gone home to bed by this late hour or are secluded in any a number of taverns. It's already well past sunset, the night having darkened to its inky blackness and lit lanterns bathe the harbour’s slick boardwalk in a warm, amber glow.  The sky is clear, pin-pricked with thousands of shining stars, reflected twofold in the still, dark water, and the bright moon casts a silvery shadow over it all.

All is calm.

Other than the sounds of footsteps on the old docks, the gentle lapping of the water against the stone walls of the harbour is the only sound he can hear. Even the ever-chattering seagulls have quieted, their absence magnifying the stillness of the night, and even the low murmurs of conversation that usually drift from other docked ships seems muted tonight.

He quickens his pace, the uneasiness spreading. He feels foolish, a pirate scared by _silence_ of all things, but he’s a sailor and superstition is as a part of him as his blood.

Something is not right.

Tonight is not the first night he’s felt like this. In truth, he’s felt uneasy since arriving in Boston three days ago, when it had settled upon him like a fog the moment he stepped onto the dock, clouding his mind and soul.

Tonight is the worst though, and he’s itching to return to the open sea. _The Jolly Roger_ won’t be ready for another two days but the thought of remaining here, stuck on land for any longer, stresses him out even more.

He’d sought refuge in a tavern earlier, the flowing alcohol and conversation a usual cure for his restless soul, but no one else seemed to sense any impending doom and that had been too aggravating to take. Most of his crew had seemed to sense his restlessness, and while a couple had remained behind, too distracted by drinks and women and games to notice, most of them had risen silently and followed him out of the bar. They knew their captain – knew that something was bothering him – and, as sailors as well, respect the warning of superstition.

Killian is several feet ahead of those who’d followed, the crew keeping a respectful distance behind him, as he approaches the moored _Jolly Roger_. Smee, the first mate who’d drawn the short straw and had to remain behind to guard the ship, waves at them from up on the deck of the ship.

“You’re back early. Everything alright, Captain?”

“Aye,” Killian replies, jumping onto the gangway, and providing no more response than that. He sees Smee exchange a nervous look with some of the crew behind him, but Killian ignores it. He moves up towards the ship, thoughts already on the fresh bottle of rum in his quarters and in silent prayer that it will help a bit, when suddenly, there is a bright white flash of light that drives the thoughts from his mind.

He cries out in alarm as the light fills his vision, spreading and blurring everything in sight. He catches sight of Smee, the man’s face twisted now in a horrified expression, before the man is totally obscured, invisible against the blinding white light.

Killian reaches out, grasping for the edge of the ship to hold onto, but it's as if his arms are reaching through water, moving slowly and sluggishly, and his fingers end up clasping nothing but thin air.

He stumbles a bit, blindly looking for anything to anchor himself too, when a loud roaring sound appears that makes him clasp his hands to his ears in pain and freeze in place.

It echoes through his mind and reverberates through his bones, and Killian suddenly is terribly afraid that this is it, he was right to be uneasy, this is the end and he’s going to die.

The thought has barely left his mind when the bright white light and roaring noise change suddenly, to an endless blackness and unnerving quiet and then Killian feels nothing more.

<>

Nearly three hundred years later, on a cold wintery morning in January, Emma Swan sits in her office, sipping hot coffee and reading her laptop screen with narrowed eyes. It’s been a long morning of work already, a two-hour debriefing on current cases that have left her with a raging headache and an itch to get some answers.

The meeting had gone well, or as well as is to be expected. One agent had had good news about their own case – a new lead – and another had reported, with great glee, the reunion of their runaway with their family, but as for Emma’s own client, there was still no change.

It was still the early days of her taking over the investigation: the local police down in Rhode Island had passed her the case only a few weeks ago, their own trails cold and ends dead, with hopes that Emma’s agency could do better.

And they’re not wrong. With their better funding and sharper focus on disappearances, Emma’s agency is the nation’s leader in returning missing people home. She works in a special branch of the government, set up during World War I that sought to reunite returning soldiers and their families. It’s evolved over time into a service for runaways, families separated through immigration, and even the rare victim of a kidnapper, helping them all find their way back to their families again. The official name is the Boston Department of Missing and Found Persons, or BDMFP to the professionals down in D.C., but no one calls it that. BDMFP always sounded a bit too close to BDSM for her conservative government co-workers, and hence, the place is known to all who work there as Storybrooke.

When she says that name to other people, she usually gets a snort and a giggle, and even she has to admit it is somewhat silly. But it’s been the nickname of the place for as long as she’s worked there and the old legend amongst her co-workers is that that one old army general many years joked that after reading all the tragic files of soldiers who never found their way home, all the staff needed hours of storybook reading to cheer them back up again. The ‘r’ in the name had been added gradually as time went on, the wide, bubbling brook on the grounds most probably playing into that too, but Emma thinks they probably just added that in in the hope people wouldn’t laugh as hard at a place named Story _brooke_ rather than Story _book_.

So far, it hasn’t worked too well.

But nevertheless, the agency does great work. And, for Emma to work at Storybrooke now, it’s nothing short of a miracle. It’s a great job, a job that a juvenile delinquent fresh out of jail never could have landed in a million years, but it’d been connections through her bail-bondsperson boss Leroy, a sealed record, and her personal history with the department that ended up securing Emma the position.

Regina Mills, the sergeant in charge of the Boston division, had been hard to convince, but Emma worked hard enough to prove her worth, and after seven years here, working her way up from the ground, she’s progressed to be one of the agency’s top agents.

And, with all that behind her, it’s no surprise that the Rhode Island police had dropped their case into Emma’s lap, especially with the particulars of this one.

A young woman, Ariel Andersen, had gone out for a morning run in Providence four months ago, never to be heard from again. So far as Emma can tell, it had been like any other day. Ariel departed her apartment, waved goodbye to her neighbour who’d been out getting the mail, and set off on her run. Normal, entirely normal.

And then the story got weird.

Their only solid witness – a fellow jogger, keeping pace with Ariel about fifty feet back – had reported a sudden flash of white light, so bright it had blinded her for several minutes, followed by a bloodcurdling scream. The jogger had tried to move forward, to help, but couldn’t see anything and when the light finally faded and she regained her vision, Ariel was gone.

The jogger had searched for her immediately, worried, but when it was apparent that Ariel was nowhere in sight, she’d called the police. Their investigation had turned up nothing of value: no sign of a struggle, no stray hair or ripped item of clothing left behind. Ariel had been running on a dirt path, her footsteps clearly marked along the centre of it until, all of a sudden, they disappeared too. No indication of which way she’d gone after her final step, just a complete end to her path.

Just gone.

A friend interviewed later said that Ariel had been feeling uneasy in the days leading up to her disappearance, for no good reason, and the Rhode Island police were convinced that she was a runaway because of this. Emma’s not sure – especially not with the witness’ testimony about the whole white light thing – but her own leads have come up empty at this point too.

Ariel was simply there one moment and gone the next.

Emma sighs, rubbing her temples, and leans back from the laptop. She’s read the reports to near memorization now, her mind is starting to gloss over the particulars – a sure sign it’s time for a break. She rubs her eyes again, pressing hard enough to see stars, and sighs again.

Her email bings obnoxiously then, and she flinches in surprise. She checks it – just a general staff update – and then switches her computer’s sound on mute. She knows she’ll probably miss a couple important emails, but she needs quiet to focus on this case. And, besides that, she has a raging headache from sleeping so poorly the night before.

Dreams, ones she’s sure she’s never had before, had woken her up on and off all night, and since she needs a break from Ariel’s case anyways, she minimizes the file and clicks through to the drive where all the other files are stored.

She scrolls down a bit, but her hand hesitates when she reaches her file of interest. She just wants to check something, check a part of the dream that’s been bothering her all morning, but strictly speaking, she’s not supposed to look up files other than the ones she’s working on but … seeing as it’s her _own_ file, she clicks _OPEN_ on it anyways.

It’s always a strange thing to have a file on yourself in the same computer drives as all your other cases, a temptation she has to fight nearly daily to look at. She’s cracked several times, especially when she started working here, but it’s been years since she’s loaded up the files.

That damn dream, breaking her streak.

A list of documents appear on screen as the laptop finally loads. She clicks to the first document: a scanned copy of an old newspaper, its title blaring at her from the screen: _7-Year Old Boy Finds Baby on Side of the Road._

Emma sighs, heart twinging. It’s been twenty-eight years since she was that baby found alone with nothing but an abandoned truck and a knitted blanket with _Emma_ embroidered on a purple ribbon strung through it, but the feelings of pain and hurt never have faded. It’s been a long time since she thought on the details of how she was found, but that dream last night had brought it all back. She must’ve gleaned most of the details from the article and the rest of her file, read so long ago and buried deep, but it was the first time she’d ever dreamed about it in such vivid clarity.

She’d been in a forest, surrounded by tall evergreen trees, a light layer of snow on a cold October day. A brown truck was parked haphazardly off the side of the road, the side door open with bloody blankets on its seats – the sure sign that that’s where she’d been born.

In the light of day, Emma recognizes the scene from pictures in her file, but in her dream there had been more than just that. It wasn’t so much images as feelings, as if it were some long lost memory working their way to the surface. Warm arms holding her tight, tears of joy on a handsome man’s face, a pretty dark haired woman kissing her brow. She’d felt safe, loved, cared for.

Wanted.

And then there’d been a blinding white light, ruining and blurring the images, followed by a scream and shout of terror. It had been that that had roused her from sleep, adrenaline and horror filling her own veins, and she’d not been able to fall back to sleep for the rest of the night.

Now, sitting in her office in front of her file, she knows it’s ludicrous to believe for a moment that, as an hours old infant, she could form memories that have suddenly resurfaced. She figures the white light is a figment from Ariel’s case seeping into her own thoughts, but the rest of the dream still disturbs her. She’s never dreamed, in such clarity, about who could only be her parents.

The bloody blankets made it apparent that she’d been just born in the abandoned truck, but her mother (and father, if he’d even been there … after her crazy dream, she’s now wondering if maybe he was there) were gone without a trace. The truck had been unregistered, and from there, there was no way to figure out who she belonged to. Runaways, the investigation had determined, who left their newborn behind and disappeared into the forest. Never seen again, never heard from again.

And, as far as Emma can remember, there’s nothing in her file about the couple, but she just wants to check to make sure. Emma searches through the file a bit more, clicking between police reports and photos and witness reports, but she comes up empty handed, and she leans back from the laptop, disappointed despite herself.

Just a dream.

She closes her file with a sigh, taking another swig of coffee, before pulling up Ariel’s file again. She gets another couple of hours of work done on it, ducking away only for a quick lunch and another phone call briefing with the Rhode Island police. The rest of the afternoon she works in silence on the case, filling out paperwork and ensuring the report is up to date, and it’s nearing four-thirty, about ten minutes before Emma leaves to head home when there’s a knock on the door.

That’s never a good foretelling of getting to leave on time and she sighs.

“Come in.”

The door swings open, revealing Anna Arendelle, a fellow agent. Anna is probably the bubbliest person Emma has ever met, and she never would have guessed that Anna’s own position here originated with a missing person too. Her elder sister had disappeared three years ago; Emma remembers investigating that case herself. It had been eerily similar to Ariel Andersen’s case, Emma realizes – a young woman who disappeared after feeling uneasy for a few days with no trace. Anna had shown up a few months after their final lead disappeared, determined to get a job and find her sister. Regina Mills had apparently been impressed with her grit and determination and, three years later, Anna was still here.

“Emma,” she says presently, uncharacteristically severe. “There’s an emergency. We need you.”

Emma’s attention snaps away from the computer. “What’s going on?”

Anna moves cautiously into the room. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “But we’re all being sent out to location, to deal with a situation. Regina sent out a memo – you must’ve not read your email – but we have to go. Now.”

Emma blinks at her. To see Anna so serious … it really must be an emergency. “Okay,” she says, simply.

“I’ll get us a car,” Anna says, already halfway out the door. “They’re going fast. Meet you in the parking lot?”

Emma nods, clicking close on her file and pulling her jacket around her. She picks up her pager from the desk too, something agents are required to wear when out in the field on duty, and pulls out her cell phone. She sighs, looking at the time, and after selecting a contact, pulls it to her ear as she heads out of her office.

Ruby Lucas, her neighbor in the apartment complex, answers on the second ring.

“Hey, Emma. What’s up?”

Emma hesitates for a brief second. She’s asked the Lucases – Ruby and her grandmother – many times to get her son Henry from school when she’s had to work late, and they’ve never minded; old Granny always says he’s like the grandson she never had. But this time … this time she has a feeling it’s going to be a lot longer than just a couple hour babysit.

“I know it’s last minute, but can you get Henry and watch him for a few hours? Something’s come up and I – I don’t think I can make it home on time.”

“Of course,” Ruby replies instantly. “Is everything okay?”

Emma glances around her. She’s come to the top of an open staircase that looks out into the main foyer of the building. It’s usually busy there – the general entrance for everyone who works here – but it’s crowded to the brim now. Her coworkers all have grim faces, some with both fear and worry etched into their features too, and Emma feels a flicker of apprehension and alarm in her own chest.

“I’m not sure yet,” she admits. “You don’t mind staying for a couple hours? I don’t know how late I’ll be.”

Ruby assures her that it’s not a problem, and after Emma explains that there are leftovers in the fridge and promises to give her a call and update later, they disconnect.

She reaches the ground floor, slipping her phone into her pocket, and joins the rest of her coworkers flooding out to the back parking lot. Storybrooke keeps a healthy amount of official squad cars, SUVs, and vans on the property, ready at a moment’s notice for when the teams need to move out, but Emma’s sure she’s never seen more than six gone at any one time. But now, half the lot is already empty and the other cars are filling up fast. Several of their larger transport trucks are being filled with piles of blankets and cases of water bottles, a long assembly line of workers filling them one-by-one.

She gawks for a moment, taken aback at the sight of seemingly her entire department mobilizing, and it’s only Anna’s frantic waving and shouts that finally pull her attention.

“Emma! Over here!”

She moves quickly, jogging over to Anna, seated in the front seat of a sleek black SUV, and gets into the passenger seat. The backseat is occupied already with two male agents Emma has worked with plenty of times, Graham Humbert and Robin Locksley, and they greet her from the backseat as Anna starts the car and pulls out.

But they don’t get very far – the narrow exit lane of the parking lot creating a bottleneck and they end up idling in a long line of cars.

“So what do you think this ‘emergency’ is?” Emma asks, filling the silence of the car as they inch ever so slowly along. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

In the backseat, Robin shakes his head. “No idea. I’ve spoken to Sergeant Mills and all she said was that the FBI wants our entire staff to aid them with a situation down at the Norton Reservoir.”

“The FBI?” Emma asks sharply. “They’re involved in this too?”

Graham, the head of Storybrooke’s communication with local police departments and the liaison with the FBI, clears his throat. “The police down in Norton discovered the situation and called FBI immediately. And then they called us.”

Emma’s eyebrows raise. “How long has this been going on?”

Graham hesitates for a moment, and then says, voice quiet, “FBI arrived on scene twenty minutes ago and called us two minutes after that.”

That statement lays ominously upon them all, and the entire car falls into silence. Emma has interacted with the FBI before, sure, but Storybrooke is usually brought in _after_ they’ve investigated the situation. Not usually for hours, and certainly not after less than ten minutes.

She glances out the window, to where they’ve finally reached the end of the parking lot bottleneck, and swallows nervously. The mobilization of the entire department, the immediate summoning from the FBI: Emma’s abruptly aware that she’s in for what could very well be the longest night in her career.

The others seem to have come to the same conclusion, and they all remain quiet, lost in their own thoughts, for the trip. The sky darkens along the way, the roads illuminated by the headlights and flashing sirens of the long convoy of vehicles.

They begin to slow down about forty-five minutes after leaving Boston, another bottleneck of cars appearing as they all reach their destination. It appears ordinary to Emma: a sign revealing it as small lake that has some sandy shores for kids to play in during the summer, but that heavy feeling of apprehension only increases as they get closer and get closer. Anna’s knuckles have turned white from gripping the steering wheel so hard, and both Graham and Robin are clenching their jaws so tightly she wonders if they’re going to break some teeth.

They get closer, revealing fully armed SWAT guys guarding the entrance to the parking lot. Emma frowns, watching as they wave the Storybrooke agents through, and as they inch closer, she can see police cruisers, ambulances, black SUVs and unmarked cars parked haphazardly in the parking lot ahead, and when their car gets waved through, Anna just barely manages to find a place to park.

They all jump out immediately, and Emma’s heart begins to quicken with adrenaline. A loud hum of noise greets them, and they walk as a unit towards the sound. Other agents are flooding towards the area too, and when Emma and her group crest the top of the hill that leads down to the lake, her jaw drops open.

It’s like nothing she’s ever seen.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of people are clustered on the shores of the lake. The sky is already darkening, the winter sun having dipped behind the horizon already, and someone has set up large floodlights that bathe the area in eerie white light, paling everyone’s faces into even more drastic expressions of fright and confusion. The people are all dressed in the strangest mix-match of outfits: some in outdated fashions from the 80s or 90s but more still in clothing Emma has only seen in period movies. Fifties-style poodle skirts, sharp suits and bowler hats, slim and sequined flapper dresses, both pristine and bloody war uniforms from both World Wars, and, hell, one lady even looks like she’s walked straight out of _Pride and Prejudice_. Many are shivering in the crisp winter air, clutching at each other for warmth, and looking around them fearfully. SWAT members have surrounded them all, herding them together, while FBI agents flow through the crowd, digital tablets out and styluses in hand as they jot down information. Nearly all of the people are staring in shock at the tablets, as if they’ve never seen anything like it before, and most are regarding the uniformed officers with utter terror on their faces.

For several wild moments, Emma simply gapes at the scene, her mind processing a thousand things at once. She doesn’t have the faintest idea what the hell is going on, but there’s one thing clear to Emma and she turns right to Anna, who looks just as dumbstruck as she does.

“We need to get blankets for these people,” Emma orders. “And get them all somewhere warm. They’re going to freeze out here.”

Anna nods, snapping out of her shock, and disappears into the crowd in an instant. Her loud voice, calling for order and support fades as Emma turns around, but Graham and Robin have disappeared too.

She spots them already jogging down the hill, down towards the crowd, and she hurries after them. But before she can reach them, a FBI agent appears her in path.

“Agent Swan?” he asks, and Emma nods. “If you’ll please come with me. Commander Hua wants to speak with you.”

Emma follows the agent a bit into the crowd, to where a ring of FBI agents are clustered in deep conversation. Emma recognizes the commander of the Boston FBI, a stern woman named Hua Mulan, and when Mulan spots her, she nods to her other agents who move on instantly.

The agent who’d accompanied Emma departs then too, and Mulan shakes her hand firmly. “I’m glad your department is here, Agent Swan,” she says. “This is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Emma nods, and she looks around at the crowd. “What’s going on?”

“All these people … well, it’s hard to explain. A couple of hours ago, a family was out walking their dog when they said there was what they thought was a bright flash of lightning that even blinded them for several minutes.”

Emma’s stomach drops, and she can barely believe her ears. “Lightning?” she repeats. “Was it a flash of white light?”

Mulan’s eyebrows raise sharply. “Yes, that’s what they said. Why?”

Emma shakes her head, her heart pounding. _White light – Ariel’s case, her own dream … it’s just a coincidence, nothing but a coincidence, it can’t be anything but a coincidence_. “I just – never mind. What else did they say?”

Mulan’s eyes are still narrowed, but she continues nevertheless. “After the light faded, the next thing they knew, there were all these people in front of them when, moments earlier, they hadn’t been there.”

Emma’s eyebrows raise and she looks around at the hundreds of people. “They just appeared?”

“Apparently.” Mulan sighs, and then continues, her voice low, “The thing is, Agent Swan, I don’t think they’re lying. I talked to a couple myself – everyone gave me different answers as to what year it is and who the president is. A lot are even surprised to hear they’re in Massachusetts and keep insisting that they’re really in Toronto or New York, or even places like Shanghai and Sydney.”

Emma’s eyebrows raise and she looks around at the people nearby. She’s had a natural knack for telling when people can lie her whole life – her superpower, as she calls it. Mulan may not think these people are lying, but Emma can’t believe her until she hears it herself.

As Emma surveys the crowd, she notices that several of the people are staring at her and Mulan anxiously, having recognized their authority, and have inched closer, desperate for any insight on what is going on.

Emma wishes she knew herself. She turns back to Mulan, and says, “Do they have any identification on them?”

“Some do.” Mulan un-clips a slip of paper from her clipboard and hands it to Emma. It’s an old style driver’s license, half-handwritten and other bits clearly done on a typewriter. Emma imagines seeing something like it in a museum, paper faded and yellow, but this one is still white and crisp – as if it was just freshly printed.

She shakes her head in disbelief, and peers closer at the information printed in all caps upon the license:

_AURORA PERRAULT_

_License Issued: January 29, 1959 in the State of California_

There are other identifying features, just like a normal license, and Emma looks back to Mulan in disbelief. “This – there’s no way it’s a forgery?”

Mulan shakes her head. “This is just an example of one person,” she says, voice low and severe. She gestures to a pretty young woman standing nearby, auburn hair up in large curls and dressed in a pale purple dress that’s tight at the waist before billowing out and falling to her knees. “And she’s adamant that it’s valid. That she just got it yesterday.”

“That’s – that’s impossible.”

“It is. But … but we looked her up in our database, and found a Missing Persons file on her from 1959. All the details match. And she’s not the only one. I’ve talked to dozens already, my agents looking their information up, and almost all of them have Missing Person reports, filed in different years. The 60s, the 20s, the 80s. All over.”

Emma gapes at Mulan. “So – _what_?” She shakes her head, and hoping she can retain the calm edge to her voice, says, “These people all disappeared in different points throughout history and now they’re all here?”

Mulan nods solemnly. “So it would seem.”

Emma’s jaw still feels like it’s on the floor, and she consciously shuts her mouth. She doesn’t have time to say anything else to Mulan, though, because another FBI officer comes up to her, and, after speaking in a low voice with him for a moment, she apologizes to Emma for having to step away and then departs with the officer.

Emma’s mind is spinning, and though she still thinks what she’s seeing is impossible, she clamps down those thoughts. No matter what, these people are here now, standing in the cold and freezing. They need to get them out of here, to somewhere warm and safe, where they can then conduct a thorough investigation.

Surveying the crowd, Emma sees Anna coordinating an assembly line of agents, blankets, and water bottles through the crowd and Robin standing on the edge of the crowd with a circle FBI officers, all grim-faced.

Determining that Anna has most of the ‘comfort’ situation under control already, Emma starts to move towards Robin. She notices that he’s somehow gotten hold of a megaphone, gripping it tightly in his hands, and when he notices her in turn, he steps away to meet her halfway.

“Graham is organizing buses to come and get them,” Robin says as his greeting. “The local counties are supplying them and readying them as we speak.”

“Good,” Emma says. “It’s too cold for them to all be out here much longer. We’ll take them back to Storybrooke, yeah?” The campus used to be a military base, with barracks and infirmaries and cafeterias. They’re empty, but thankfully still maintained because the United States government is nothing if not fastidious when it comes to their military buildings, even ones reluctantly handed over to other departments.

Robin nods. “I’ve already sent a bunch of agents back, told them to get some food ready and bunks set up.”

“Good,” Emma says again, and she surveys the crowd in front of her. “You heard what the FBI think?”

There’s a quiet pause before Robin says, “Yeah.”

“And what do you think?”

He sighs, and shakes his head wearily. “I don’t know what to think, honestly. It sounds insane, but ...”

Emma nods as he trails off. “I know.” They lapse into a silence then, both minds swirling and racing as they try to comprehend the impossible, and before Emma gets too overwhelmed, she clears her throat. “Well, we better talk to them and let them know we’re going to move them.”

Robin grimaces and holds the megaphone out to her. “All yours, Agent Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, but takes the megaphone and marches over to one of the nearby picnic tables, clambering up it to stand on the table. “Attention everyone!” she calls, through the megaphone, her voice amplified a thousand times. “If you can all look this way, please!”

Several people shoot her terrified looks – unused to hearing such a loud voice, apparently – but quiet down as bidden. It takes a few minutes to get the message to the back of the crowd, several more minutes of Emma calling out for silence, until the entire crowd is quiet in front of her, waiting with bated breath.

Emma’s never been one for public speaking, especially not with thousands of terrified eyes upon her, and she takes several calming breaths before she begins. “Thank you. Now, everyone, I want to ask you to all please remain calm. You are perfectly safe –”

“ _Safe_?” someone hollers from the fourth row back, an angry looking teenager with raggedy long hair, dressed in bright yellow bell bottom pants and a tie-dye t-shirt. “We’ve all been abducted by aliens and you are telling us we’re _safe_?”

Granted, Emma was thinking something along those lines herself but would never say it out loud and especially not to these people, and she grimaces as a ripple of fear spreads through the crowd, only growing more hysterical as it goes on. It takes several more minutes of Emma yelling into the megaphone and agents flooding through the crowd to calm them all back down.

“Everyone, _please_!” Emma calls for what feels like the tenth time, and finally, a wave of unsettled quiet settles upon the crowd. She takes another deep breath, feeling unnerved herself, and says, as calmly as she can, “Now, buses are coming to take you to somewhere safe and secure, and we’re going to get to the bottom of this. We don’t know what has occurred to you, but we promise that we’re going to make sure you’re all entirely taken care of.”

A couple people mutter darkly at that, but no one has time to raise too much of a fuss as a rumble of arriving buses filters down the hill. The FBI spring into motion, herding the confused crowd up the hill towards the parking lot. Robin and Emma follow suit, and help direct people onto particular buses as they arrive. Emma and Robin split up at the top of the hill, moving to side-by-side buses, and begin escorting people onto them, offering a kind word or pleasant smile as required.

Most of the returnees are simply too frightened and cold to protest and file quietly onto the bright yellow school buses, but a handful hang back apprehensively and some down right refuse to get on them at all.

Emma’s just finished convincing a scared elderly woman to get onto the bus when she hears several loud voices. She looks over; a dark haired man, dressed in an elaborate black leather jacket of all things, is shouting profusely at Robin and another of the agents.

The crowd is too loud for her to hear what exactly he is saying, but whatever it is is enough for Robin to wave over some of his nearby fellows and strong-arm the leather clad returnee off into the back of one of the nearby FBI cruisers. Emma watches as a pair of handcuffs appear from an FBI’s back pocket, which are then firmly secured around the man’s wrists.

Emma sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. Of course things couldn’t just go smoothly.

She waves another agent over to take her place at the front of the bus and then moves towards the cruiser, side-stepping through one of the line-ups for a bus and nearly colliding full-on with one of the returnees. The woman had stepped back, shifting her weight only so slightly just as Emma passed, but it’s enough of a collision to send them both stumbling, and it’s only on instinct that Emma grasps the other woman’s arms to straighten her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, automatically. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the woman replies, with a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her green eyes, which remain frantic and wild, just like the other returnees. She’s petite and young – around Emma’s age – with short black hair framing her pretty heart-shaped face.

Though Emma should just move on and continue to Robin, she frowns at the woman for a second, feeling a sharp flash of familiarity rush over her. She knows for a fact she’s never seen the woman before but there is something so familiar about her that has her wracking the depths of her mind for any memory, no matter how fleeting it may be.

For a wild second, Emma thinks she sees curiousness in the woman’s eyes too, but the thought that maybe this woman can sense something familiar about her too disappears when she says, in a quivering, daring-to-be-hopeful voice, “You’re – you’re the one who spoke earlier, right?”

Emma nods, and she pushes her own feelings out of the way and returns to her professional mindset. “Yes, I’m Agent Swan.”

Hope fills the woman’s face then, and she reaches out to grip Emma’s hands tightly in her own. “You can help me then! I’m looking for someone, well _two_ someones actually – my husband and my daughter. I – I don’t know what happened to them when I was – taken. I need to find them.”

The woman continues to speak, but Emma’s heart has sunk and she’s hardly listening. This woman is just the first to say it, but Emma realizes that all these people, all these _thousands_ of people are all going to be looking for someone: a father, a mother, a child, a lover. Family, friends, even co-workers and acquaintances. She may not fully comprehend what is going on yet, the mechanics of how people are seemingly back from the past, but she realizes that some of these people’s family and friends will have died years ago, hell, even _decades_ ago. Or, and Emma’s not sure what would be worse, the people they’re looking for may not want to be reunited; they’ve already grieved and cried for their lost loved one and moved on.

She suddenly finds she can’t linger any longer and she interrupts the chattering woman with a gentle, but firm, “Ma’am, we’re going to do all we can to reunite you with your loved ones. Please, excuse me.”

She moves away, not daring to glance back at the brunette, lest she see the hurt expression she just knows is flashing across her face, and hurries over to join Robin. He’s speaking in low tones with two FBI officers, but stops when he notices her approach.

“What’s going on?” Emma asks immediately, inclining her head to the car behind Robin.

He sighs in response, and shakes his head. “One of the … _people_. He was uttering threats. Not surprising, considering, but I thought it’d be best to have him separated from the rest for now. The agents are going to follow the buses back to Storybrooke with him. Hopefully he’ll calm down by then, but if not …” Robin trails off, but Emma knows what he means: _isolation room._ It’s not a jail cell – not quite that bad, Emma knows firsthand – but still, being locked in a solitary room is probably the last thing a traumatized returnee from who-knows-what (or _when_ ) wants.

“Did you get a name?” she asks. “We’d better get a handle on the rowdy ones first.”

Robin shakes his head again. “No. And he had no ID either. I told them to work on it on the way over, but I doubt they’ll have much luck. As soon as we put him in the back of the cruiser, he clammed up and hasn’t said a word since.”

Emma scrubs at her eyes, then a wave of exhaustion rolling over her. She glances to the car, but a tall police officer is standing in her way and she can’t see into the backseat. “Well, keep me updated, yeah?”

Robin nods, and Emma moves on again.

There are still hundreds of people to be loaded onto buses still, but the other agents seem to have it handled, and Emma decides she’d be best off returning to Storybrooke with the first busload of patrons. She climbs aboard a nearby bus, securing a seat at the front, and smiles as encouragingly as possible at the quiet, watchful crowd on board.

“Everyone ready?”

No one answers, and Emma gulps awkwardly. She nods at the wide-eyed bus driver, who pulls the doors shut, and then off they go.

The ride back is eerily silent. Emma surveys the crowd from her spot at the front of the bus and recognizes the dark haired brunette woman she’d spoken with earlier, sitting beside a pale blonde, shivering in a bright blue party dress, but they’re both as silent as the rest of the bus.

When they arrive at Storybrooke, nearly an hour later, the gate guard waves them through, and the returnees all turn to gape out the window as they roll through Storybrooke’s campus. The office buildings are all relatively modern – their agency went through a thorough renovation three years ago – with sharp angles and walls made of nothing but glass windows, and the returnees stare at them in awe.

Near the back of the campus is the old military barracks, which weren’t renovated, remaining the old brick buildings they’d been in the past. The bus rumbles to a stop in front of one, and Emma turns in her seat, facing the returnees. Most are still gazing out the window with wide eyes, but a couple are looking at her, sensing this is the beginning of their new, strange world.

She takes a deep breath and says, “Welcome to Storybrooke.”


	2. chapter ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments and the likes and reblogs on tumblr for this story! Each and every one of them mean the world to me. They're such an inspiration for me to keep on with this story, as I only wrote the first three parts for the CS Big Bang, but it's going to be much longer than that and all the feedback for this story keeps me so motivated to keep working away at it!

It’s not until two hours after returning to Storybrooke, after many conversations with the returnees, that Emma finally gets a moment to herself. The returnees have clustered in the old cafeteria of the barracks, sat at the cold steel tables that fill up more and more as new busloads arrive, all looking miserable and scared. Storybrooke officers swarm like ants between them all, asking questions and jotting things down, and when Emma reaches the end of her table – having talked to people who claimed to be from London, Los Angeles, Vancouver, Prague, Jakarta – she slips away from the crowd, back out into the semi-deserted foyer.

Her head hurts – her superpower hadn’t gone off once, and Emma has no choice to admit that this must be all true. Sure, just because someone believes something doesn’t always mean its true, but on such a scale as this? Where hundreds upon hundreds of people firmly believe they’re from a different time? Emma’s starting to think there may not be any other reasonable explanation, even though _reasonable_ doesn’t even come close to what’s going on.

She steps off into a side hall, and pulls her cell phone out. It’s nearly eight p.m. already, and she curses. Ruby and her granny often look after Henry for her, but she’s never left them this late without a message.

Ruby answers on the first ring. “Hey, Emma. How’s it going?”

She glances back to the cafeteria, and grimaces. “Not that good, Ruby. I hate doing this such last minute, but do you mind staying over with Henry tonight and getting him to school tomorrow?”

She can almost hear Ruby’s eyebrows raise. “Pulling an-all-nighter, eh, Miss Swan? This better be for work,” she says, but her voice is only jokingly serious, “and you’re not just sticking me with your kid so you can have a hot date.”

Emma almost chokes. “No, no, nothing like that.”

“Because, listen, Emma, if you ever wanna do that, I’d be totally fine staying with Henry, God knows you need a good –”

“Ruby,” Emma interrupts sternly, and Ruby cuts off with a cackle. Emma sighs, and rubs her eyes with her free hand. “I’ll text you later, okay? Can you pass the phone to Henry so I can say goodnight?”

Ruby obliges, hollering out for Henry, whose voice appears a few moments later on the other line. “Hi Mom!”

“Hi honey. How was your day at school?”

He starts in on his day, and they chat for several minutes. Emma feels like she’s been running on adrenaline for nearly four hours at this point, and just hearing Henry’s usual chatter is enough to calm her down a bit, to bring her back to a state of normalcy in the sea of madness around her. He tells her about his science presentation, how he and his friends at lunch had decided that they were all medieval knights on a quest to slay a dragon, and how he’s been playing video games with Ruby all night. After Emma scolds him for a bit – “Don’t you think you should’ve done your homework first?” – he switches the conversation and starts talking then about his fairy tale book, one he’s read at least twenty times already.

“Ruby says that the story about Red Riding Hood is all wrong, that Red wasn’t the wolf at all, but I told _her_ –”

Emma sighs; Henry’s book certainly does have an interesting spin on things. “I bet Ruby’s just never read that version of the story, kid. You should read the whole thing to her.”

“I will,” Henry announces then, and he promptly tells Ruby behind him the exact same thing. Emma hears her sigh dramatically and Emma chuckles, seeing Ruby’s exasperated eye roll as if she was right there too.

“You be good for Ruby, okay, kid? There’s been a big emergency here at work, so I’m gonna be busy with that, but Ruby’s gonna stay over and make sure you get to school on time. If all goes well, I’ll see you tomorrow when you’re home from school.”

“Okay, bye, Mom! Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Emma has barely hung the phone up when a loud beeping, emanating from her belt, begins. Her pager hardly ever goes off, but now, when it actually does, it startles her so much she nearly jumps a foot in the air.

_Immediate Mandatory Meeting, Board Room C_

She sighs, rubbing her eyes once more before heading off. The board rooms are in the main office building and it takes her a few minutes to get over there. The room is already full with people, eyes all wide and frantic, and a low murmur of conversation fills the large room, but Emma is too tired to join in. She takes a seat between Robin and another agent, Eric Christian, both engrossed in other conversations, and leans back against the cushy leather for a moment of relaxation. It hardly lasts long, though, as the door swings open again and Regina Mills, the sergeant in charge of Storybrooke, enters the room.

She looks as calm and cool as ever, elegant dark hair perfectly in place and crisp pantsuit without a wrinkle. If Emma hadn’t known differently, she’d have thought this was a normal routine meeting, not a meeting about something Emma feels would better belong in a science fiction movie; the only sign that anything may be amiss is that Regina’s bright red lips are sealed into a tight grimace.

“Good evening, everyone,” she greets, moving to stand at the head of the table, and the conversations instantly fade out. “I understand that tonight has been a trying experience for us all, and I’d like to commend you all for your professionalism and strength in handling the situation.”

Emma can barely stop her eyebrows from raising; praise from Regina Mills – it must be even worse than she thought.

“I’ve already had briefings with the FBI and CIA about the events of tonight,” Regina continues. “Additional support from both departments are already enroute, and our sister offices in Houston and Los Angeles are standing by if we need more assistance.” She pauses then, and something dark and irritated flashes in her eyes. “Commander Gold is on his way too.”

A ripple of uncomfortable conversation bubbles through the crowd then. Gold, the elusive commander of their entire organization, hardly ever left his cozy office down at the official headquarters in D.C. – in all the years Emma has worked for the Department of Missing and Found Persons, she’d only heard of one occasion where Gold had ventured out into another city in the past two decades. He’s all of their big boss, and from the stories Emma had heard, his appearance here at Storybrooke will only serve to complicate their already complicated job.

“He’ll be here in the morning,” Regina says. “But for tonight, the situation is in our hands. The victims are all frightened, cold, and hungry. The majority have been cooperative as we work to assist them, but there was, of course, several who did not react as well. Our other agents are down in the barracks with our calm guests, but I have need of you lot to deal with our more … disgruntled ones.”

She nods at Graham, seated just beside her. He clears his throat and gets to his feet. “I’ve a list of the returnees we’ve put into the isolation rooms for now. When we’re finished here, I’ll assign you each one of them.”

“For tonight,” Regina continues, and everyone’s attention slides back to her. “Our main goal is to make them feel as comfortable as possible. Whatever has occurred has been traumatic for them all, and by the looks of it, they don’t even remember what exactly it was that happened. Get what information you can from them, but reassure them that this is a safe place.” Everyone nods, and Regina mirrors their action curtly. “Then get to it.”

She sweeps from the room, and Graham is swarmed instantly by other agents; he gives out names to each agent and when it’s just Robin and Emma left, Robin says, in a tone Emma knows he intends to be humorous but just comes out tired and weary, “Got anyone left for us?”

Graham nods, and taps the clipboard. “A man who wouldn’t stop yelling for his wife and daughter and – oh, it’s the one the officers drove here. The one in all the leather who threatened you earlier.”

Robin scowls immediately at that, and Emma sighs. “You deal with the dad,” she says, firmly, even as Robin opens his mouth to disagree. “You’re a dad too – you’re in a better position to talk to him than I am. Besides, I doubt Mr. Leather wants much to do with you. I’ll handle him.”

Robin still looks a bit put out – he clearly wanted to have it out with the leather man – but he nods and they set off to the barracks, where the isolation rooms reside on the top floor. The main entrance is now heavily guarded by SWAT guys, and they scrutinize both Robin and Emma’s ID for several long moments before allowing them entrance into the building. The front foyer is also now full of swarming officers, and they have to push their way forcefully through them towards the cafeteria area. Both Robin and Emma had agreed to stop and get some food for their clients before heading up – neither knows whether or not they’ve been given any food yet.

Like when Emma was in here earlier, the cafeteria tables are all crowded with the returnees, huddled in blankets with wrapped sandwiches and juice boxes in front of them. FBI officers in their black clothes have joined the Storybrooke officers in flitting around the room, taking notes, and it takes Emma and Robin a few minutes to make it to the kitchens at the far wall.

The workers in there hardly acknowledge their entrance; the frantic-eyed kitchen staff are preparing countless trays of food, and even some of the agents, Storybrooke and FBI, have been recruited to kitchen duty, standing in assembly lines with white aprons over their uniforms. They’re busy cutting up fruits and vegetables, assembling sandwiches, and pouring countless cups of coffee, tea, and milk, preparing meal after meal for the returnees outside.

Emma sidles past them, grabbing two water bottles from a stash on the counter and exchanges one for a neatly wrapped sandwich from Robin. They leave again, fighting through the crowds again, and start their journey upstairs.

The guard at the entrance to the isolation room area looks at their IDs again for a long moment, and then nods them through. Another agent, hand gripping a clipboard so hard his knuckles are white, directs them towards their individual returnees – Robin down the east wing, and Emma down the west. The guard – a young agent who introduces himself as Kristoff Reinsdyr – walks down the hall with Emma as they move towards the room.

“This one is tricky, Agent Swan,” he says, a nervous edge to his voice. “He’s not said a word since we brought him in.”

 _Typical_.

“Not even his name?”

“No. But he’s been cooperative, otherwise. The guys who brought him in said there was some trouble down at the lake, but he’s been quiet since he’s been here.”

Kristoff slows then as they approach one of the rooms. Though he said the man’s been amicable, the room is guarded individually by two tall men, who nod seriously at Emma in greeting. She nods back to them, and turns to Kristoff, saying, “I’ll do my best to get some information from him. Move him to one of the interview rooms for me.”

She retreats briefly to a nearby staff room to grab a pad of paper and pencil and to gather her thoughts as the other agents unlock the door. She can hear them speaking loudly to the man, and listens to their footsteps fade down the hall.

Kristoff is waiting for her outside when she returns, and escorts her back down the eastern hallway to Interview Room B. The same guards are waiting there again, and one of them says, just as Emma rests her hand on the door handle to open the door, “Be careful, Agent Swan.”

Emma frowns, and looks into the room through the door window. The man is slouched in the chair, glaring down at his lap. His hands are still in handcuffs, chained to the table in front of him. He looks docile enough, but there’s something dark emanating from him, even from out here, something that she can’t quite place. Something so otherworldly, something so clearly _not from here_ , that Emma thinks that perhaps it was wise to keep him handcuffed for now.

She nods once at the officers, and pushes the door open. The man’s head snaps up and she really gets a good look at him. He’s handsome, tanned face framed by dark hair and shockingly blue eyes rimmed with black makeup. That air of danger magnifies as he shifts in his seat, leaning casually back and watching her every move with calculating, cold eyes. His expression is carefully guarded but the intensity of his gaze unsettles her a bit, each movement of his eyes a sharp, lethal scrutiny.

Emma grits her jaw and forces her professionalism to the front of her mind. She places the tray of food on the table, sliding it towards him so it's within reach even with his cuffed hands. “A baloney sandwich,” she says as a way of greeting. “I hope you’re hungry.”

He just stares blankly back at her, eyes not moving from hers, and doesn’t reach for the food at all.

She takes the seat opposite him and then tries again. “I’m Agent Emma Swan of the Boston Department for Missing and Found Persons. I don’t know if the officers told you where you are, but you’re in our headquarters here in Boston. In the United States of America,” she adds as an afterthought, just in case he has no idea where Boston is. “We’re a government agency that is now responsible for your welfare and are investigating what occurred to bring you to us in the first place.”

Still no response.

Emma is starting to wonder if he even speaks English, and she asks just that. “Do you speak English?”

At that, he lets out a derisive snort, rolling his eyes dramatically, and he nods.

Well, that’s something at least.

“Can you tell me your name?”

The previous progress vanishes, and he returns to simply staring sullenly back at her.

Emma sighs, and steeples her fingers, staring intently at the man. “I understand that this is a frightening situation for you. It is for all of us.  I want to assure you that you can trust us. You’re not under arrest, you’re not in trouble. You are safe here and we are going to help you,” she says seriously, and she pours as much sincerity into her words as she can muster. “You can trust us. You can trust _me_. We all want to understand what has happened to you, and how best to help you. But we can only do that if you help us in turn. Does that sound fair?”

He still regards her suspiciously, concentrated eyes surveying her in silence, but then he finally speaks. “Aye.”

His voice is rough and accented, a darkness lacing it even from that single word. But now that she’s got him speaking, Emma is eager to keep it up.

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask some basic questions. Would that be alright with you?”

He hesitates for a second, suspicion clouding his features again, but he nods once, and Emma launches in.

“What’s your name?”

He pauses again, frowning, but then finally replies, “Killian Jones.”

Emma nods, triumph at having cracked the man flooding through her, and makes a quick note of his name on her piece of paper. “So, Mr. Jones –”

The man flinches and his features sharpen into an icy glare. “Captain,” he says, firmly. “Not _mister_.”

Emma hesitates, but then Regina’s words flash through her mind: _we want to make the returnees as comfortable as possible_ , and she nods. “Captain Jones, then. Where were you when you disappeared?”

But he ignores her question, leaning forward and pushing the tray of food to the side. A roguish smile lifts his mouth, and he says, “Swan, was it?”

She narrows her eyes at him, already wary of where this is going, but nods.

His smile widens then, and he says, with a cheeky edge to his voice that lightens his entire demeanour, “You can call me Killian.”

She has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Of course she gets the flirty one. “Alright, fine. Killian. Now, where were you during the last thing you can remember before you appeared at that lake?”

“I was in Boston Harbour,” he replies, and that surprises Emma. That’s the closest place to where they all reappeared that she’s heard so far. “It was late,” he continues, frowning slightly, and she focuses on him again. “I was returning from the tavern to my ship. I hadn’t been feeling well, so I’d set about to return early. I remember arriving, and I was just about to board when there was this flash of white light that blinded me and after that … nothing.”

 _The white light_. She scrawls all the relayed information down, heart hammering. The mention of it has sent goosebumps shivering down her spine, and she asks, “White light? Do you know where came from?

“I don’t bloody know,” he says, a bit curtly. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Emma thinks of what Mulan said earlier, how the family had seen the flash of white light and then the returnees all standing there and she wonders … “Did you see it again tonight? Down at the lake?”

“No.” He shakes his head then, and says, in a low, bitter voice, “All I know, is that one moment I was aboard my ship and the next I was standing at that lake with the rest of those people.”

He’s looking extremely sour now, and Emma senses the warning bells of someone who is about to shut down completely. She still needs some more answers, and so she decides quickly to change tactics. No more questions about the white light for now – back to his own personal story.

“You have a ship?”

He nods, a faint smile appearing on his face as a memory surfaces, but it quickly fades into a bitter, sad grimace. “I did.”

She reflects a grimace back to him, her own heart twinging a bit in sympathy, but she continues with her questions nevertheless. “What do you think today’s date is?”

His expression darkens even more. “Whatever I think it is, lass, I am clearly misinformed. None of _this_ –” and he jerks his head in a gesture around the room, with its fluorescent lights and sleek steel furniture – “could have existed when I did.”

“No,” Emma agrees. His accent clearly places him from somewhere long forgotten, and the old style leather outfit only reinforces that. “I don’t think it did.”

They fall into silence, Emma allowing it to grow and fill the room. She wants him to do the talking now, and sure enough, he is the one to finally break the silence.

“The last thing I remember,” he says, “is that it was early spring. April or May, I’m not certain. I always lose track of the exact date, I am often out at sea for weeks at a time, but I do know the year. It is – _was_ 1748.”

Emma’s mouth dries up, and she can’t help but gaping back at him. “1748?” she repeats, dumbfounded, and does a quick calculation in her mind. Over 260 years ago.

And it’s not a lie.

Oh, god.

Upon hearing that date from a man sitting before her, breathing and living just as she is, it starts to fully hit Emma what is going to happen if this is all true. She’d accepted it only on a surface level, a way for her brain to accept it so she could get some work done before falling apart at the absurdity of it all, but if all these people are telling the truth, if that Aurora Perrault from the lake is really from 1959, if Killian Jones really did live two and a half centuries ago …  everything everyone knows about the world is going to change.

She stares back at Killian, and her heart begins to beat heavily. He looks just her age or maybe a few years older, but he should have been dead centuries ago. A long forgotten name, a life lived and ended – not sitting here with her, in 2011, alive and well.

 _1748_.

He lived in a time before America was even a country, in a world where slavery and general brutality was commonplace, in a world without electricity or telephones or modern medicine or anything that she takes for granted today. He won’t understand modern slang, won’t know what the internet is, won’t know anything about his new reality. He won’t recognize the Boston skyline, won’t know what cars or trucks are, won’t be immune to the diseases of today, won’t –

That last thought scares her more than anything, and she realizes they’re going to have to vaccinate every single returned person with every possible vaccine out there. Even vaccines they don’t use anymore, diseases that are eradicated or nearly so. Smallpox, diphtheria, whooping cough, polio, measles. It’s bad enough to have the anti-vaxxers out there, creating enough havoc with immunity and health care as it is, but now all these people are here too, most probably unvaccinated if they’re as old as Killian or actually carrying the very diseases the world has worked so hard to destroy.

If anyone were to get sick … her heart and head already ache at the thought. She shouldn’t even be in here, talking with Killian. He looks healthy, but who knows what diseases he could have brought back with him from the 1700s, of all things. And he’s only one, there’s thousands of others. All the agents are gonna have to be vaccinated too, oh god, she can already imagine the look that’ll appear on Dr. Whale’s face when she tells him –

A low chuckle draws her out of her wild thoughts, and her eyes flick instantly to Killian. He is shaking his head, a dark expression on his face, and he mutters, “I take it 1748 is a long distant date to you.”

She nods, feel a bit faint. “Yeah, it is.”

He hesitates for a second, and Emma can almost hear the apprehension and fear in that moment. “What year is it now?”

Even though she doesn’t want to alarm him with how much time has passed, she can’t exactly lie either. “It’s 2011.”

He swears, and Emma can’t help her eyebrows raise at the words he uses, words she hasn’t heard used in such a way ever.

“2011,” he repeats slowly, tasting the words as they fall from his tongue. He shakes his head, and in a whisper where true fear and anguish finally cracks into his voice, says, “What happened to me?”

Emma can’t even imagine how truly frightened he must be, realizing that the world he remembers is gone in a flash, and words fail her for a moment.

“I don’t know,” she manages finally. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

That doesn’t appease Killian, who in a gesture more attuned to her ten-year-old son than a fully grown man, rubs at his eyes in tiredness. A wave of weariness seems to wash over him then, he slumps forward in his seat, and with that, Emma realizes suddenly there’s going to be nothing else gained from tonight. He’s too upset still, too bewildered, and clearly exhausted by this evening’s events to tell her anything else useful.

She stands then, and gestures to the officers outside. She hears them start to open the door, and she turns to Killian. “I think there’s nothing else to be done for tonight. Thank you for your cooperation. The officers will return you to your room and more information –”

Anger fills his expression instantly, replacing the exhaustion in a sharp moment, and he says, quite coldly, “You said I was not to be imprisoned.”

“You’re not,” she says, and she gestures to the officers that have now entered the room to uncuff him. They raise their eyebrows, but one steps forward to oblige her. Killian steps away from him instantly, rubbing his free wrists, and then glares pointedly at her.

“Then why must I be kept in a cell?”

“It’s not for long,” Emma says quickly. “And it’s for your safety. The world has changed a lot since you were around, Killian.”

He snorts in derision, and eyes the guards darkly as they move to escort him back to his room. They reach out to grasp his arms, but he pulls free from their grip to stand on his own.

“I’m going to speak with one of our best counsellors here about you,” Emma says, before Killian lets out a nasty comment that cause the guards to grab him and smash his face into the ground. “Belle French. I think she can really help you ... adjust to everything.”

He stares back at her, anger still in his eyes. His eyes sweep over the guards then, dropping to the guns and tasers and batons at their belts, and his expression darkens. He looks like he wants to say something, but changes his mind at the last minute, as if recognizing himself that he won’t win this battle. “Fine,” he spits out through clenched teeth, and Emma nods.

She gestures to the guards, who move forward to escort him out. Killian dodges the guards’ outstretched hands, sending them dark glares that have them stepping backwards automatically, and moves out of the room on his own. Emma follows them all out, and as the guards and Killian disappear down the hallway, she turns to Kristoff outside the room.

She tells him about her concerns over the vaccinations and, once the Killian is out of earshot, to keep him in the isolation room for now. Kristoff promises to pass the message along to the other guards down in the cafeteria and to collect any other returnees from times before vaccines too to bring them up to the other rooms, and then Emma departs.

She calls Dr. Whale and tells him about her concerns for vaccines, and though he’s irritated and rude as always, he assures her he’s already got it under control. Her next call is to Belle French, who answers the phone with such background noise she’s clearly in the midst of the crowded cafeteria, and she agrees to take on Killian’s case after Emma explains the basics of it to her.

After that, Emma returns to the cafeteria herself. She sets to work helping out in the kitchen for now, the entire agency focused on just getting enough food for the people. When the final busload of returnees finally arrive on the Storybrooke campus, and are seated amongst the others in the cafeteria, the Storybrooke agents begin their work and as it goes, Emma knows, for certain now, that this is just the start of the longest night of her life.


	3. chapter iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much everyone for all the comments and kudos and such! They really do mean the world to me. Enjoy this bit!

The Storybrooke agents have a routine for ‘found persons’ and even though it's never been on this scale before, Emma’s agency are the experts. They conduct swift interviews with each person, assure them that they’ll be fine and taken care of, refer them to medical if they need it immediately or escort them either up to the isolation rooms or to the bunks that have been made up on the second floor.

Dr. Whale was true to his word, and there’s already strict instructions for the proper isolation of people from before the majority of vaccines were available – up to the isolation rooms, everyone one who had contact with them off to medical for some vaccines immediately to not potentially spread anything further.

Emma is sent off herself, and she waits in the long line of agents getting vaccines. The CDC, with trucks of frozen vials, had arrived while she was upstairs with Killian Jones, and they prick the agents with what must be a cocktail of vaccines, all placed into one needle, as if they were a herd of cattle on a farm.

Her arm aches afterwards, but she’s barely got time to even rub it as she’s immediately off to the cafeteria again. She quickly snags a free table to begin her interviews, and then beckons one of the guards to start shuttling people her way.

About an hour later, Emma’s just finished up with one of the people, a young man named Will Scarlet from London, England – who’d been rather huffy and uncooperative, as far as Emma was concerned – and is stuffing his paper into a file quickly scrawled with his name when her next client sits down.

Her jaw nearly drops to the floor.

Dressed in a bright turquoise jogging outfit, with dark red hair, large hazel eyes, rosy cheeks: it's the face Emma saw just this morning, staring back at her from the computer screen.

“Ariel Andersen,” she blurts out. “You – you’re here.”

Ariel, for that’s only who she could be, flinches a bit in alarm and her eyes widen. “How do you know my name?”

Emma curses silently to herself – _way to be professional_. “I was assigned to your case,” she confesses. “Your missing persons case,” she clarifies at Ariel’s expression. “I’m – I’m so happy to see you here.”

Ariel just stares back at her, blinking several times. “Missing persons case? What? What are you talking about? How long have I been gone?”

Emma hesitates, but then figures she can’t exactly lie. “Four months.”

“Four months?” Ariel repeats sharply, and her eyes seem to double in size. “But – that’s crazy. I was just out running this morning, that’s not possible, how could this –”

“We’re going to figure it out,” Emma interrupts firmly, already seeing the beginnings of hysteria in Ariel’s eyes. “But for now – um, can you tell me what you remember?”

Emma continues the interview process with Ariel, even though she knows pretty much all the details. Out for a jog, sudden white light, then nothing. It’s like everyone else she’s talked to too – a normal day in their life, and then that’s it. Just absolutely nothing.

Emma’s just wrapping up when she catches sight of Eric Christian, another Storybrooke agent, and Emma gestures him over.

“Ariel, this is Agent Christian,” she introduces, and Eric quickly shakes Ariel’s hand. “He’ll take you upstairs and show you where the bunks are.”

Ariel still looks totally freaked out, but she nods warmly at Eric and the pair head off. Emma steps away from her table then, needing a moment before she heads back into interviewing. She thinks she’s kept it together pretty good so far, but seeing Ariel has rattled her more than she’d like to admit. A person _she_ personally knew to be missing, a case that she investigated herself, and yet – here she is. Back as if nothing has happened.

Emma grabs a fresh water bottle and then leans against one of the cool cement walls of the cafeteria, sipping her water and absently watching the scene around her. Agents are crowded with returnees, their different clothing from all throughout time a jarring reminder of what’s occurred tonight.

Her mind drifts, thinking back to the man upstairs. Killian Jones. He’s the oldest returnee she’s encountered by far – the closest year she’s heard is 1865, from both that Will Scarlet and a young woman named Alice who seemed rather calm about the whole thing and claimed this wasn’t the first time she’d ended up somewhere unexpected.

And while culture shock is going to be a big thing for _everyone_ , Emma can’t imagine coming from the 18th century to being plopped right into modern society. Not to mention the danger of doing so – she wonders, briefly, if Whale has gotten a hold of Jones yet, given him some shots to ensure he’s going to be okay with all the viruses and bacteria of this age.

 Her mind is still on Killian, wondering what he’s up to right this second, how he’s dealing as more time goes on and reality starts to really sink in, when a shriek abruptly draws her attention back to the present.

Just a few feet away, her fellow agent Anna Arendelle is standing with her arms securely locked around a tall blonde woman. Emma vaguely recognizes her as one of the people who’d travelled to Storybrooke on her bus, the young blonde woman in the sparkly blue party dress. Anna is creating quite the scene, sobbing into the woman’s shoulder, and saying, over and over again, “I can’t believe you’re back! I’ve been looking for you for so long!”

Emma remembers then, her heart leaping into her throat, that Anna’s sister had disappeared three years ago without a trace. This must be her – the missing Elsa Arendelle whose disappearance had led to Anna’s employment with Storybrooke in the first place.

Anna is nearly hysterical with tears now, attracting even more attention from the nearby agents and returnees. A couple of the agents seem to sense the discomfort and, frankly, _jealousy_ that the reunion is creating in the other returnees and they move quickly to Anna and Elsa’s side, ushering them off to a private room. Emma watches them leave, Anna refusing to let go of her sister for even a moment, and her heart swells with emotion.

Her eyes fall on the crowd of people still waiting. She knows she can’t linger any longer: these people all want to have that happy reunion with their loved ones too, and with that, Emma returns to her little table.

Immediately another returnee takes the seat opposite her. This one is a woman around Emma’s own age dressed in normal, modern clothing. She introduces herself as Marian and demands instantly to be allowed to contact her husband and her son. Emma sighs, and pulls out some blank forms, and settles into a routine that lasts her the rest of the night.

The next morning is when the real business starts in earnest. Dozens of doctors come in and conduct medical exams, including consultation with CDC scientists on suitable vaccines for each individual, followed by visits with psychiatrists and counsellors. Beds and food are arranged better – the returnees organized by relative age and gender up in the barracks for now – and those returnees who don’t speak English are matched up with the best translators there are. Further interviews take place, files are compared to what known records are out there, and even some families are notified if the disappearances are still relatively recent.

Other professionals flood in from across the country to help, some even from across the globe, but it but even with all of them working around the clock, it takes the better part of four days to get all the exams and interviews done.

Emma doesn’t even go home, sleeping for a couple hours at a time in her office when she can barely keep her eyes open anymore, and the only contact she has with Henry over those days is rushed text messages and quick phone calls to Ruby and her granny to make sure they don’t mind watching him for so long. She’s not allowed to say anything about what has occurred – the agency has been sworn to secrecy because of what panic people literally returning from the past could ignite in the nation – but they’ve figured out that it must be something extremely important and even Ruby’s sassy jokes have stopped.

Emma is exhausted at the end of it, barely able to keep her eyes open and head up. She’s just finished with her final client, a young woman named Guinevere who had disappeared only three months ago and was adamant that she doesn’t want to see her estranged husband, who’d – unfortunately – already been one those notified about the return.

She’d promised the woman that she was entirely safe here, that she didn’t have to see anyone she didn’t want to, and when Guinevere was sufficiently calm, retreated back to her office. Emma had dropped into her desk chair, head resting flat on the desk and is nearly half asleep when her pager beeps and nearly gives her a heart attack.

She silences it quickly, and reads the message with a sinking heart. Regina wants a meeting _immediately_ ; any chance Emma could’ve had for a quick power nap is out the window.

She gets up with a grumble, and walks down the hall to Regina’s office. The door swings open immediately upon her knock, revealing Regina and, to Emma’s great surprise, Commander Gold.

She only recognizes him from his picture hanging in the main entrance hall, having never actually met him before. He’s a rather short man, with floppy gray hair and beady eyes and dressed in an impeccable suit that’s probably worth more than Emma’s entire apartment. He’s seated behind Regina’s desk, fingers steepled as he watches her enter the room with an unreadable expression, and as Emma moves further into the room and takes the seat opposite him, a heavy, uneasy feeling settles upon her. It’s for no reason, really, but Emma’s learned to trust her instincts over time and she already knows that for whatever reason she’s been called here, it can’t be good.

There’s really no need for introduction, but Regina does so anyways. “Agent Swan, this is Commander Gold. Commander, one of Storybrooke’s top agents – Emma Swan.”

Emma smiles, a bit hesitantly, in greeting and Gold nods at her, still surveying her with his dark eyes.

“Welcome, Agent Swan,” he says, and even though his words are pleasant, a cold shiver runs down Emma’s spine at his voice. “You’re just in time. We’re discussing one of the returnees, Killian Jones. I understand you’re the one who first interviewed him upon arrival at Headquarters?”

Emma nods. “I did.”

“And what was your impression of him?”

Emma frowns, a bit unsure at this line of questioning. What did Gold care about Jones? “He was fine, I suppose. Confused, just like the others. Didn’t want to talk at first, but he did eventually. Why?”

Gold ignores that question. “Did he tell you anything of his life?”

“Not really,” Emma admits. “He said he was from 1748 and that he used to have a ship, but that’s it. And oh, he mentioned he was a captain too.”

Gold nods again, as if he didn’t expect anything more. “And what was your impression of his demeanour, Agent Swan?”

“Confused,” Emma says again, feeling a bit befuddled herself now. “And a bit hostile at first, but that’s to be expected.”

“Hostile,” Gold echoes, humming quietly in thought. “That’s putting it rather mildly, wouldn’t you say?” Emma simply raises her eyebrows, unresponsive otherwise, and Gold continues, “From what I understand, Killian Jones verbally threatened several of the agents who first approached him down at the lake and that is why he was in isolation in the first place.”

“Well, yeah, but it was a stressful situation and I don’t really blame him–”

Gold sighs then, interrupting her, and looks to Regina. “It is as I said, Sergeant. It would be foolish to allow a man like that out of isolation and into the general population of the returnees. Incarceration is our only option.”

“Incarceration?” Emma says loudly, before Regina can reply to Gold. “ _What_? You’re going to arrest him for reacting badly when the last thing he remembered was nearly three hundred years ago and he was freaked out by being here now? You can hardly damn a man for _that_.”

To her intense annoyance and furthering her initial gut reaction to him, Gold rolls his eyes. “No, not for _that._ For your information, Agent Swan, Killian Jones was one of the most wanted criminals in the known world when he was alive.”

Emma is taken aback, and she gapes at Gold. “He’s – he was a criminal?”

Gold nods. “A pirate, to be more exact.”

 _A pirate_?

 _Seriously_?

Yeah, sure, she didn’t know a damn thing about Killian Jones, but she never would have suspected he was a pirate, of all things. True enough, he had mentioned a ship in their interview, but Emma just assumed he was a sailor or a merchant, not a _pirate_ , nevertheless a highly sought after one. He had been dressed all in black leather with heavy eyeliner and, well, okay. In hindsight, that probably should’ve been a clue that he wasn’t some merchant, but of all the things to be …

Gold continues then, his voice musing as if simply discussing the dinner options for that night instead of a man’s fate. “Granted, it _was_ nearly three hundred years ago, but it wasn’t that long ago for _him_. In Jones’ mind, last week he was a pirate, an outlaw wanted by the British Crown for murder and mutiny, and that criminal mindset won’t have changed simply because he’s here now. Killian Jones is a ticking time bomb and it would be terribly stupid of us to allow a man like that to walk freely again.”

Emma stares at Gold again, her mind racing. When she had been a little girl, alone and trapped in a foster care system that seemed to hardly care about whether or not she was still alive, the idea of pirates had fascinated her. For little Emma, the idea of being entirely free from any authority had gripped her imagination from the first time she heard about them. Pirates could do whatever they wanted, could sail the seven seas and never visit the same spot twice, and, most importantly, were _free_. And to Emma, that had seemed like the ideal life.

She knows she romanticized them when she was little, as all kids do – ignoring the danger, the blood and gore, the criminality of it all. And so, Gold is right. Killian Jones is not some fairy tale pirate, but a criminal who probably did do all the things the arrest wants say he did – theft, mutiny, murder.

But Emma can’t ignore the way her gut clenches at the idea of locking up a man based on bits and pieces of information from centuries ago. She knows first hand what it’s like to be locked up by someone who doesn’t know the full story, and the thought of being directly involved in doing that to someone else sickens her right down to her core.

“As I’ve told you, Commander,” Regina says quietly, and Emma looks sharply to her, drawn out of her thoughts. “Jones is our client now. He’s the same as anyone else who arrived on that lake last week, and we can’t very much arrest him for crimes that were committed hundreds of years ago. I don’t even know if we _have_ jurisdiction to do anything in the first place. Those warrants were issued when we were under British laws.”

Relief that Regina is not considering arresting him floods through Emma then, and she lets out a snippy comment she probably would’ve reigned in in other circumstances: “I think the statute of limitations has also probably run out.”

Gold’s cold eyes barely flicker over Emma at the comment, coming to rest solely on Regina instead. “You are correct that we were under British jurisdiction then, but as Jones is on _American_ soil now, things have gotten a little murky. The British authorities have been contacted, but they’re content to let us handle it.”

“And handle it we will,” Regina says, coolly. “But not in the way you are suggesting. Our policy, as I’m sure you’re aware, Commander Gold, is to return people to normal life after a trauma, and Killian Jones is no exception to that rule. Even if I were open to the idea of arresting him, we simply don’t have any first hand accounts of his crimes to justify such a move. Besides that,” she says, and here her voice turns severe, “you may be the commander, Gold, but _I_ am in charge of Storybrooke and all our clients here. I make the final call.”

Gold regards Regina coldly for several long minutes after that, and for a brief moment, Emma wonders if Regina has pushed him too far. But then his face twists into a sneer, and he says, “You’re making a mistake, Sergeant.”

“No,” Emma says then, and a flash of surprise crosses both Regina and Gold’s faces. “She’s not. Arresting Killian Jones for something so long ago is wrong and against our principles.”

“I’m not saying that we’ll just let him go without any supervision,” Regina adds, as Gold takes in a deep breath, ready to unleash another tirade. “We will keep an eye on him.” Her eyes flicker briefly to Emma then, and she adds, “Jones has spoken with Agent Swan already – she’ll be assigned his primary contact for now and will report back to us on his progress.”

Gold doesn’t reply to that, and he coolly gets to his feet, leaning heavily on a gilded cane as he surveys Emma and Regina. “If that is what you want to do, Sergeant Mills, I will of course accept your decision.”

Emma raises her eyebrows, and even Regina looks doubtful. “Will you now?”

“Of course,” Gold says, voice silky like velvet – Emma hates the sound of it. “But I just want you to be aware of what you’re doing,” he adds. “You’ll be allowing a dangerous criminal out with the rest of our clients. He could do any number of things to them, and if he _does_ do any of them … well, those actions and their consequences will be on your both of your heads.”

Regina glares at him, and Emma has to grit her teeth together to stop herself from snapping back at the man. Gold, satisfied by their silence, moves out from behind the desk then, limping past Regina and ripping the door open. He doesn’t even bother shutting it behind him, his cane’s loud clicks on the stone floor audible for several long moments.

Emma and Regina simply watch him go, and when he’s finally rounded the corner, Regina lets out a dramatic sigh. She moves to sit down Gold has just vacated and rubs her temples.

“I hate when he’s here.” She looks up to Emma then, and waves half-heartedly for her to leave too. “You’d better go home and get some rest. You look half-dead – if you’re gonna be keeping tabs on Jones, I need you in best shape. Gold isn’t going to make this easy for us.”

Emma nods, and she departs Regina’s office too, the sound of Regina’s phone starting to ring following her down the hallway. When she’s back in her own a few minutes later, Emma pauses as she swings her jacket over her shoulders, staring at her open computer with an idea already blooming in her mind. She settles herself down at her computer before she can second guess herself and pulls up Google.

Gold had more information on Killian Jones than she did and his arrogant attitude over it has set Emma’s teeth on edge. If she’s going to be the one responsible for Killian and his actions, then she needs to find out some information for herself. Not from Gold and his bias, but do her own research.

Talking directly to Killian to learn more is off the table for now – he’s still in isolation. Emma had heard earlier that day from Kristoff (when she ran into him at lunch break) that the CDC scientists had panicked when they learned how old he was, refusing to let him out until they ran more tests to ensure he was both infection free and immune to today’s bugs … though Emma suspects Gold has probably had a hand in keeping him locked up for now too.

That makes her grit her teeth even more, and Emma types _Killian Jones_ into the search bar. The first thing that pops up is a Wikipedia entry on missing people from the 1700s – because of course Wikipedia has a page on that – and even though it’s a terrible resource for accurate information, it’s somewhere to start to see how close Gold even was, and so Emma clicks it, scrolling down until she sees Killian’s name.

_KILLIAN JONES, THE MISSING CAPTAIN_

_The life and disappearance of Killian Jones, an honoured British Naval lieutenant who later became one of the most infamous pirates to ever sail the sea, has fascinated historians for many years. His mysterious disappearance in 1748 at the age of thirty has only compounded the interest in his case, and today the circumstances surrounding his disappearance remain a hot topic for historians._

_Born in the summer of 1717 in London, Jones was abandoned early as a child, and grew up in servitude upon many merchant ships. He and his elder brother, Liam, secured their freedom and joined the Royal Navy and by 1740, at the age of only 23, Jones had already excelled to the position of lieutenant. He was serving on the same ship as his elder brother, now Captain Liam Jones, when Liam was killed in an attack on Cartagena de Indias during the British attack on Spanish settlements in the New World. Killian was left as the new Captain of_ The Jewel of The Realm _, but contrary to his orders to continue the battle, the new Captain Jones abandoned the fight and led his entire crew to mutiny. The ship was re-named_ The Jolly Roger _after the infamous pirates’ flag and Jones became a feared pirate along the entire Eastern coast of North America and the Caribbean for the next eight years, fleeing British officials at every turn._

_In April of 1748, Jones and his crew sailed into Boston Harbour. Pirates were not uncommon in Boston at the time and Jones was well known to visit the area. Locals at the time were wary of any visiting ship after the Boston Impressment Riot of the previous year and the resulting distrust of the British Navy created a friendlier atmosphere for pirates than other East Coast settlements at the time._

_Jones’ visit this time, however, was different than all the others as it would be the last time he was ever seen alive. On April 18_ _ th _ _, 1748, Jones was seen out at a local tavern with the majority of his crew. According to witness accounts recorded later, his demeanour was cold and unsettled for much of the night and he left the tavern with his crew early._

_From then, there is only much mystery._

_His crew claims that, when they returned to their ship, there was a sudden white light that appeared, blinding them all, and when it faded, their captain was gone. No independent account of this remains and historians assume that the crew made up the ‘white light’ story as a way to cover up a mutiny and blame a supernatural event for his disappearance instead of themselves. However, the crew proclaimed their innocence in his disappearance for many years to come, even against the common assumption, even of the day, that they mutinied and killed their captain. It’s well reported that they searched for him in the waters of Boston Harbour for many days, but no trace of Jones was ever found and a body was never recovered._

_While historians have concluded that Jones was most likely killed by his crew that evening, they have noted the peculiarity of the crew’s stubborn insistence on innocence, something uncommon to pirates of the day, even crews as infamously loyal as Jones’. As a result, the exact circumstances around the disappearance of Captain Killian Jones remain a mystery to this day._

Emma leans back from the computer, mind racing. She’d gotten a shiver when she read the part about the white light, still spooked by her dream from so many days ago and having interacted with so many returnees whose story included that damned light, but her mind is still mostly on stuck on the whole ‘pirate’ part.

So it is true.

She thinks back to her interaction with him in the interrogation room. The air of darkness she’d sensed around him as she entered the room – that was because he _was_ dark. Sure, this was just Wikipedia and could hardly count as an accurate historical record, but he _was_ a pirate. A killer, a murderer, a criminal.

But Emma knows instinctively there was more to him than that. Yes, he’d been cold, dark, and dangerous. But he’d also been frightened, confused, upset – all human emotions she’s seen in the eyes of hundreds of people over the last few days. Gold may only see him as the name on the paper, but Emma knows that there’s more to him than just the fact that he was a pirate three centuries ago. He’s a man too, a human who’s suffering just like the other returnees, stripped from the world he knew in an instant. He’s lost something Emma can’t even imagine and abandoning him in a jail cell, hidden and forgotten by the world, would be an inhumane thing to do; certainly not a thing Emma would’ve ever signed up for when she joined Storybrooke.

And it’s probably stupid, probably a silly thing to even think about, but as Emma closes her laptop and heads home for the first time in days, she finds she can’t quite wait until she gets to see Killian Jones again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's technically the end of the 15K I wrote for the Big Bang (or Little, really) but as you can see, I'm not done with this story yet :P I'm still writing away at it, and hopefully I'll be able to keep the updates semi-regular. In the meantime, come hang with me on tumblr, I'm @swanslieutenant there, and I'd love to chat about the story or anything else! Thanks so much for reading!


	4. chapter iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the comments and kudos and such! This chapter is quite long, I hope it'll keep you satisfied for a bit!

When Emma wakes up the next morning, snuggled and cozy in her blankets, it takes her several minutes to finally haul herself up and out of the warmth to start the day. She’s not slept in her own bed for days now, and falling into it last night had been a dream come true.

She’d gotten home actually pretty early, Regina having dismissed her just after lunch, and she’d napped for a few hours on the couch upon returning home. She’d also texted Ruby that she was back now and that she could get Henry herself, and her son had been delighted to see her as the one waiting for him when school let out.

They’d gone out to dinner to Henry’s favourite restaurant, Emma too exhausted to do any cooking, and then just spent the rest of the evening as normal as it could be. Henry was curious, of course, of what had kept her busy, but Emma didn’t dare tell him. Forget about the whole being sworn to secrecy thing, there was still so much that was unknown and scary about the situation that Emma didn’t want her sweet son to worry about it. Not when there was really no good explanation for it, no rhyme or reason for why some people had disappeared centuries ago to suddenly reappear today.

And so, after an evening spent helping him with his homework and a movie, she’d tucked Henry into bed with a story from his favourite book – Snow White and the Seven Dwarves – and then passed out nearly instantaneously herself. She’d been so exhausted, so totally drained, that she’d slept without a dream and it was the soft morning light, flooding into her bedroom through a window she forgot to pull the curtain over, that wakes her up long before her alarm even goes off.

It’s still hellaciously early – Emma groans at the clock on the stove as she stumbles into the kitchen to make some coffee. While it brews, she moves to the bathroom, slipping into the shower. That’s another thing she’s not really done in a few days, embarrassingly, and the hot water pouring over her skin releases some of the tension the last few days have left imprinted upon her body.

It’s not enough to erase all of it though – her heart still flutters a bit when she thinks of returning to work, to the chaotic situation she left behind, and she’s still feeling a bit apprehensive about it all when she’s rousting Henry a few minutes later.

As he mumbles and groans, Emma retreats back to the kitchen, and pours her coffee into a travel mug. Henry comes stumbling down the hall as she’s sipping it, waving sleepily at her as he moves into the adjoining living room. She watches him collapse on the sofa, switching the TV on, and she frowns out of habit.

She’s not strict, by any means, but Emma does have some ground rules. Meals are eaten together at the table, chores are done first on the weekend, no TV before school and none before homework is done at night. And though she’s itching to tell Henry to turn the television off, she’s hardly been home the last week, and her guilty conscience makes her lenient.

And so, today she says, “Not too long, okay, kid?” as Henry flips through some channels. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”

That’s another of Emma’s rules – breakfast. Emma is a firm believer in always having something to eat before school, having spent too many mornings in her own childhood sat at uncomfortable desks with a grumbling belly. No child of hers will ever feel such a thing, and even though she hardly has any fresh food left in the house, this morning isn’t going to be any different.

Though, it’s not looking like it’ll be anything exciting today. She’d been hoping to make pancakes, always a special treat for Henry, but she has to pour the milk down the sink for being sour, ends up ditching two of the five eggs they have left for being bad, and determines they are out of flour _and_ sugar.

So nope, no pancakes today.

She resorts to frying the remaining eggs and popping some bread in the toaster for at least something to get them off to a good start, and digs through the fridge a bit to see what fruit they’ve got left that’s good too.

“Mom!” Henry calls from the living room. “Come here!”

“I’ll be there in a second,” she calls back absently, head still in the fridge. It doesn’t appear like the fruit is still there – eaten, that’s better than her throwing it out, but she still frowns. Hopefully the juice is still good then, at least there’d be that. She pulls the orange juice carton out, noting that it’s due to expire in two days, thankfully, and sets about shaking it to see what’s left – 

“Mom!”

“One second, Henry, I’ll be right there.”

She closes the fridge, pouring Henry the remaining juice before looking back to the eggs. She flips them, glancing over to the toaster too to see if it’s done. It’s still merrily toasting the bread, and her mind shifts to Henry’s lunch. She usually sends him one from home too, but with no other options today, she’s already got ten bucks on the counter set out for him and she’ll have to remember to give it to him before he leaves, he’s always running off before she can even get a goodbye kiss most days –

“ _Mom_!”

Emma finally turns around, spatula still in hand and the cup of juice in the other. “What, kid?”

He’s sat on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, which he’s got switched onto a news channel with _BREAKING NEWS_ scrawled across the bottom of the screen. He turns to stare at her, eyes wide. “You need to come look at this.”

At that, she finally abandons the half-made eggs. She pauses behind Henry, leaning on the couch and staring at the TV, and as she absorbs what’s going on, her stomach tightens with dread.

_Oh, shit._

The image on the screen is of the Storybrooke campus, seen through the iron gates that keep the place secure. Dozens of large black cameras on tripods and reporters with microphones with every major news network logo are crowded around the gates and Emma can see the security guards she waves to every morning sternly holding them back. Emblazoned across the image is a large news title and Emma groans as she reads it: _GOVERNMENT RELUCTANTLY ADMITS THAT HUNDREDS HAVE “TIME TRAVELLED”TO TODAY FROM DIFFERENT POINTS IN HISTORY_

The ticker tape at the bottom keeps lists off stats: how they’re all being held at BDMFP headquarters in Boston, how the government has known for a week, how it could become a public health crisis, how it could change everything we know about the world we live in…

 _Shit_.

The TV image switches then to a screenshot of a blog, entitled _Words of the Wicked Witch_ and a reporter’s voice speaks over as the image zooms haphazardly in and out. “News of the events of last week were first brought to light on an internet blog, who claims to have an inside source at the BDMFP. The news was first posted on the site yesterday and went viral overnight. Although initially hesitant to confirm anything, the BDMFP did release a statement early this morning confirming the blog’s claims in an effort to quell the growing public outcry.”

_Shit, shit, shit –_

The image shifts again, this time to a reporter standing in front of the gates, jostling for position to get a good shot of the campus behind him. “The exact number of people who have seemingly returned is still unknown, but is rumoured to be in the thousands. The spokesperson for the Boston Department of Missing and Found Persons says they did not authorize the release of this information and that, out of respect and privacy for the returned people, no information on who has come back will be released. The BDMFP also said that the exact method of _how_ these people returned to our time is still being investigated and there is no reason for the public to be concerned.”

The image flashes back to the newsroom, to two highly skeptical looking anchors. “How can this _not_ be a public concern?” one of them demands. “People have returned from the past and they expect us to not be concerned about it?”

Emma leans over, grabbing the TV remote from beside Henry, before the reporter in the field can answer, and flips the TV off.

Silence descends then, and it’s only broken when Henry twists on the couch, staring up at her, and he whispers, “Time travelling?”

Emma nods, ready for the onslaught of concerned questions, but then Henry’s face breaks into a wide smile, his eyes lighting up with pure glee.

“That’s _awesome_!”

Emma laughs, and though she knows the situation is going to be nothing but a gong show at work, for now she can laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, and she ruffles Henry’s hair. “I think you’re the only person on earth so far who thinks that, kid,” she says, straightening and moving back to the kitchen. Luckily the eggs didn’t burn, and she pulls them quickly off the stove, and pulls the toast – now cool – out of the toaster. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”

Henry bounds into the kitchen, sitting eagerly at the table. “Mom, you gotta tell me something! This is the coolest thing _ever_! Time travel is really real?”

“Apparently.”

“That’s so amazing! I can’t believe it! Who is the oldest person you met?”

“Well,” Emma says slowly, and strictly speaking everything is confidential but … “I did meet this one guy from the 1700s who was a pirate.”

Henry’s eyes widen and he looks like it’s Christmas morning. “A pirate? A _pirate_? _Really_ , Mom? Oh my gosh, that’s so cool! What was he like? Was he like Captain Jack Sparrow? Was he someone famous, would I know him? Did he have a hook for a hand? Did he –”

Emma laughs, and places the plate of food in front of Henry. “Eat up, kid, or we’re gonna be late.”

“Okay, but Mom –”

Emma’s cellphone, resting on the kitchen table, begins to ring then, piercing through Henry’s questions. She already knows what it will be, and she sighs as she sees a secured number – one of Storybrooke’s – on the call display.

She points at Henry’s food and mouths ‘eat’ as she pulls the phone up to her ear. “Agent Swan.”

“Hey Emma,” Graham Humbert says on the other end, voice harried and stressed. “You on your way in yet?”

“No,” Emma says, taking a bite of her own slice of toast. “But I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay. Have you heard yet about –”

“Oh yeah,” she replies, with a snort. “It’s all over the news.”

Graham sighs. “I know. It’s such a disaster. Well, okay, when you get here, let me know. Regina told me you’ve been assigned as primary contact for Killian Jones, right? They’re releasing him today to the general population, the CDC finally cleared him for it.”

“Really?” Emma says, her eyebrows raising. “I didn’t think they would do that for a while.”

“Yeah, well,” Graham says, and his voice is dark. “Commander Gold got taken off as final say-so on his file and lo, he’s free to go.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

There’s a commotion in the background on Graham’s end then, and he sighs. “I’ve got to run, Emma. See you in a bit.”

He disconnects, and Emma hangs up the phone too. She turns back to Henry, who pretends instantly that he’s focused on his breakfast and not the phone call she’d just had.

“Everything okay?” he asks innocently.

She just smiles. “Hurry up, kid. We’ve gotta go.”

She usually walks Henry to school, even though he’s ten now and perfectly able to walk the two blocks to _St. Patrick’s Elementary_ by himself, _thank you very much_ , but there’s no time for that today. She bundles him up in his warm winter jacket, wrapping his striped scarf securely around his neck, and they head down to her old Volkswagen bug together.

She spends the short drive over firmly telling Henry that he can’t tell anyone at school about ‘the pirate’ or really any of the things he knows about Storybrooke because people are going to be extremely on edge about the whole thing, to which he rolls his eyes and says, indignantly, “I _know_ , Mom.”

As the car rolls to a stop in front of his school, Henry turns to her and surveys her with silent eyes. His mood shifts then, from excitement, to a bit of quiet disappointment and he says, “I guess Ruby’ll pick me up again today?”

Emma grimaces, hating that her son already knows she won’t be there, but she nods. “I’ll have to ask her still, but yeah. With all this getting out to the media, it’ll be another long day for me. Sorry, Henry.”

“It’s okay,” he replies, and leans across the car to wrap his arms around Emma in a hug. “Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, kid. Love you.”

Henry pulls away, and then he’s grinning again. As he hops out of the car, swinging his backpack over his shoulders, he calls back, “Tell the pirate I said hello!”

<> 

Alone in the silence of his dark cell, Killian Jones stares up at the ceiling, arms propped up behind his head, as he runs through his memories for what feels like the thousandth time. There’s nothing else to do in this blasted cell, and he’s wracked his mind for days for any small inkling of what could have happened in those missing centuries. But it’s like staring into the ocean on a starless night – nothing but an endless, dark abyss.

He sighs, and shifts a bit, trying to get comfortable on his thin little cot. The morning is still young – they haven’t even shoved his breakfast through the small door flap yet – but Killian’s already been awake for hours. Even in this wretched place, with no windows for natural light, his body is attuned to rising with sun from years of living on a ship, even if it has apparently been centuries since he set foot on one.

He frowns then, his mood darkening as quickly as if a thunderous cloud has moved to cover the sun. It doesn’t _feel_ like its been centuries – it feels like he was just at sea nary a fortnight ago, the wind in his hair, the hot sun on his skin, the salty breeze in his lungs with every breath – but he’s had a lot of time to think while trapped in here. Days with nothing to do but brood and contemplate and deliberate on the situation he finds himself in. Killian’s decided that there’s only really two options for what’s going on: he’s either gone absolutely raving mad or he actually has travelled centuries into the future.

He’s really hoping it’s the latter.

Killian shifts again, trying to find another comfortable position, when suddenly bright light fills the room. He groans at the sudden change from the dark cell, and he rolls over slightly and lifts an arm to cover his eyes. He hates those damn lights, the ones implanted directly in the ceiling and controlled by magic switches on the outside wall of his cell. They remind him a bit of that white flash that started this mess all those years ago and they’re also achingly bright, giving him bad headaches that do nothing to improve his mood.

He hears the small door flap creak open then, and then the sound of a metal tray scraping across the floor.

“Breakfast, Jones,” a voice of one of the guards says gruffly. “Have at it.”

The flap snaps shut again, and Killian sighs. He removes his arm, blinking rapidly to adjust to the light, and then rolls off the cot and to his feet. His stomach growls at the sight of this morning’s breakfast – a circular piece of thick bread he’s been informed is called a bagel and half a plate full of fresh fruit – and he pulls it towards himself.

As he munches away, he casts a look back towards the door. As always, it’s shut firmly, the thick glass window at the top that he uses to communicate with his counsellor, Belle French, sealed tightly too, and his spirit sinks at the sight of it. Even though Killian keeps getting told that he’s not in trouble, that they’re just keeping him in here for his own protection, he doesn’t believe them for a damn moment. He knows he’s in the hands of some sort of government, and if they have figured out who he is, then he is never going to see the outside world again. No matter what that Emma Swan promised on the first night, Killian knows _people_. The government of his day was full of prejudiced arseholes who would condemn a man for far less than what he’s done; even if it has been nearly three centuries since he last lived, society won’t have changed enough to just dismiss his crimes.

He’s kicked himself several times for telling Swan his real name that first night, but in that moment, in that small interview room, with her staring so intently at him, so sincerely and openly, honesty seemed like the only choice. He could’ve – _should’ve_ – lied, said he was a nobody blacksmith or something like that, but there was something about Emma Swan that had made him want her, of all the people in the sea of unknown faces, to actually know who he is. Maybe it was his own idiotic pride at wanting to announce that whatever happened, Killian Jones had survived, that made him do it, or perhaps it was because she had been the first genuinely friendly face he’d seen that night. But there was that unnamed feeling that emanated from her that, through the terror and the panic and the uncertainty, had made him feel calm and at least slightly more in control for the first time in a long time. And when she said he could trust her, somewhere deep down, he believed her.

Her, at least. He doesn’t trust this agency she works for at all and now that she knows _who_ he is, he knows the rest of them will be able to figure out _what_ he is.   

And so, forgetting what Swan said about his safety there, Killian had decided he needed to escape. He’d escaped from many a jail cell in his day, but whatever world he’s in now, prison cell doors have advanced much past iron bars and loose locks and no matter how much he jiggles the steel handle on the door, nothing changes.

Killian has even contemplated trying to slip out when the men and women dressed in strange yellow contraptions that they keep telling him are called ‘biohazard suits’ – whatever the bloody hell that means – sweep into his cell at least twice a day, but he’s never had a good chance. Their strange suits are massive and block nearly the entire doorway, and before Killian can do much, they’re sitting him down to poke him with dozens of needles, ones with what they call ‘vaccines’ and ones that pull the very blood from his veins into little vials, giving him small little capsules they tell him are antibiotics, and all around making him more irritated than Smee on a good day.

But still. Though they seem utterly terrified of him and whatever diseases they keep saying he could have, seeing them is still a nice change from simply lying on the thin cot, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what the hell happened to him. They answer his questions too, which is nice. They explain that the lights in the ceiling are powered by ‘electricity’ and that they’re taking his blood and poking him all the time to ‘protect’ him against disease. One even attempts to explain the toilet in the corner of the cell, but they’re not sure themselves the exact mechanisms, and Killian ends up more bewildered than before.

But when they’re gone, Killian wishes them back, even to just listen to them blather on about mechanics of plumbing instead of listening to his own dark thoughts.

The only other respite from such thoughts is when Belle French comes to visit. She comes once a day, always apologetic that they have to talk through the glass window, but only stays for at most twenty minutes. She’s very busy, she tells him, but when he’s out with the other returnees and things have settled down a bit, they’ll have more time for proper conversations. Killian just nods along, still not believing he’ll ever be let out of this damned room.

Though that’s not quite true. Once a day, usually after his dinner, he’s escorted by guards in those strange biohazard suits to what they’re calling ‘the showers.’ The first time he’d been there, his second night in this time, they’d abandoned him in there to have a ‘shower’ after some rather vague instructions about fiddling with the handle on the wall to get the water to come out. He’d spent five minutes simply staring at the contraption until a guard, eyes glued to the ceiling, came in to show him how it worked. After that, with warm water pouring over him and the crisp, clean smell of the soap, Killian has decided that, for all this world’s faults so far, he does indeed enjoy their advanced ways of hygiene and it’s another daily event that he looks forward too.

Presently, he finishes the last morsel of food, standing again and carrying the now empty tray back to the door. He knocks once, and then slot slides open a few moments later. He sets the tray on the ground, nudging it forward with his foot, and a gloved hand reaches in to remove it. The slot remains open for a bit longer, and then a fresh set of neatly folded, pale blue clothes are pushed through it.

The slot shuts then, and Killian pulls the clothes up from the ground. He gets a clean set of these each morning, which is a strange luxury in and of itself. The clothes themselves remind him vaguely of undergarments (which had made him highly skeptical of putting them on in the first place), but they’re soft and comfortable, as opposed to the scratchy garments of his day. Belle told him they’re called ‘scrubs’ when he’d demanded his own clothes back (which had been rather forcefully confiscated that night after his first shower to be ‘decontaminated’, whatever that meant) and that they were what all the returnees were wearing to keep it straight who was who with all the people on campus.

Killian hadn’t been pleased to hear that it didn’t sound like he’d get his clothes back any time soon, but Belle had departed before he could do much more complaining. And so – he was left with either walking around stark naked or in the blue scrubs. And while he’s not opposed to the former, when he rather cheekily mentioned it to the biohazard scientists, their faces had gone beet red even through the suits and they’d stuttered something hilarious about ‘appropriate dress in today’s modern age.’

And while it would be highly amusing to see their expressions when they come into his cell and see him _not_ dressed ‘appropriately’, they’re really the only company he gets per day and he has no desire to scare them off. And so, as much as he’s against it, Killian has resorted to wearing the blue scrubs.

He changes into the new set just delivered, and drops the old ones into a small hamper by the door. He’s just returned to sit on his bed when the heavy lock on the door slides open and the door swings wide. He looks up, expecting to see the biohazard scientists back again, but instead it’s a burly guard, frowning at him.

“Up you get, Jones.”

Killian is instantly on high alert, and he remains seated on the cot, narrowing his eyes. “Pardon me?”

The officer sighs, exasperated. “I said, let’s go. We’re moving you today, down to the main accommodations. Come on.”

Killian still doesn’t budge, and the guard sighs again. He turns, gesturing behind him, and then Belle French appears in the doorway.

“Belle,” Killian greets, surprised. That’s when he notices that neither her nor the guard are wearing those biohazard suits – they’re standing in front of him with no protective gear. “What’s going on?”

“You’re clear to leave the isolation rooms now,” Belle explains. “Come on, let’s go.”  

He stares at her for a few more seconds, still unsure. After all these days trapped in here … are they seriously letting him out?

Do they not know who he is?

Belle smiles encouragingly, and Killian stands then. Well, if they’re foolish enough to let him out of this cell, Killian is going to take them up on it.

“All right.”

As they leave the room, Belle takes the lead, chattering excitedly about what he’s now free to do. Killian is hardly listening, taking note of each turn they take instead. Down the hall to the right, turn right once, down three flights of large stairs and past a circular desk labelled _RECEPTION_. A few more straight hallways, turn left three times, and then Belle pauses in front of a large set of double doors.

“This is the cafeteria,” she says, and pushes the doors open. There’d been a dull thrum of noise emanating from inside before and now it nearly doubles in strength. “Sort of like the common room for you all right now.”

The room inside is massive – as big as the king’s palace ballroom he once visited while still in the Navy oh so many years ago – and absolutely full of people. The vast majority are in the same blue scrubs as him, sat at round tables in groups, chattering and eating, while others are dressed as Belle, in a variety of styles of clothing in some colours Killian has never even imagined he’d see as fabric. Those people – workers here, he assumes – have multitudes of brightly coloured paper spread out in front of them, working away with a blue-clothed client or two seated beside them. Guards, in pitch black uniforms, are standing along the walls, surveying the scene and watching everyone carefully, and Killian frowns at them – it’ll be harder to slip away with them around.

“They’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping later, but for now you can hang out in here,” Belle continues, moving further into the room, and Killian trails closely behind. “They’ve got some movies going – that’s those large screens over there by the couches – and there’s books, board games, art supplies, crafts … lots of stuff.” She looks at her watch, and then says, “You get comfortable – I’ll catch up with you in a minute, okay? I’m just gonna go say hello to some of my other patients quickly.”

She pats him once on the arm, and then slips away without another word. He almost wants to call her back, feeling suddenly as overwhelmed and awkward as the first day he’d stepped aboard a royal ship as an official Navy lieutenant. But it’s been a long time since he was that young man, nervous and anxious, and no matter where he is now, in whatever time, he’s still Killian Jones, Captain of the _Jolly Roger_ , thief, criminal, pirate. 

And he needs to get the hell out of here before anyone figures that out. 

He surveys the room around him with sharp, focused eyes. There’s three sets of doors in the room, all being guarded and watched He could probably handle a couple of the guards, but there’s dozens, and even though Killian can tell weaponry has far advanced from his day, he can still recognize a pistol when he sees one. And he’s unarmed; they’d taken his sword that first night too, confiscated right on the lakeshore, and Killian highly doubts he’ll ever see that again either.

Instead, he starts looking for other ways out, and his eyes move to the far wall. His heart leaps then, thoughts of escape vanishing momentarily as he takes in the sight – large, clear-glassed windows, letting in streams of morning sunlight into the room.

 _Sunlight_.

He’s at the windows before he even realizes he’s walked over, staring out at the outside world. They’d arrived in the darkness that first night, and even though they had some sort of lantern out there lighting the roadways in their strange, fast carriages, Killian had been too distracted by everything else to take much note of his new surroundings.

But now … now he gets a good look at them. There’s a clusters of buildings built up haphazardly, ones made of a more familiar brick and others with walls made entirely of glass. Trees populate the grounds too, towering evergreens and bare-boned birches, ashes, and maples, covered in thick layers of snow, drooping and leaning with the weight. There’s a frozen stream a few hundred feet away too, adjoining with a larger, frozen pond, both blanketed with a crisp layer of snow, and fresh snow is falling too, gently floating through the air and sparkling where it catches the sunlight.

He’s never particularly enjoyed the cold winter months: he spent many too many of them freezing and starving on London’s streets when the merchant ships he was enslaved upon were docked for the winter, and then when he’d become captain, he’d sail the _Jolly Roger_ to the hot sun and warm beaches of the Caribbean to spend those months instead. But right now Killian would give anything to be outside in that brisk air.

He’s probably been standing there for twenty minutes, simply gazing outside and yearning to be out there too, when a small tap on his shoulder brings him back to the present.

It’s Belle again, a smooth black leather satchel slung over her shoulder, and this time accompanied by another returnee, a young man with shortly shorn hair and rather large, protruding ears.

“Killian, I’d like you to meet Will Scarlet,” she says, and the other man inclines his head a bit. “He’s a returnee like you.”

Killian nods in greeting, regarding the other man. Will’s hands are stuffed into his pockets, shoulders hunched, and he shifts his weight constantly, rolling backwards and forwards on his heels. He’d look awkward and extremely comfortable to anyone else, but Killian isn’t fooled. Will’s eyes are alert and calculating, and keep darting from Killian to Belle to the window in quick rotation. The man may look like a regular chap, just another returnee, but no matter what century it is, Killian knows how to recognize his own kind.

 _A criminal_.

But Belle is still watching, and Killian doesn’t dare say anything about it. He wants to – wants to feel out if this Will Scarlet could become an ally in this strange world, an ally to help him figure a way out of here. But for now he just sticks out his hand, and Will withdraws one of his own to shake it.

“Nice to meet you, mate.”

He mumbles back the same sentiment, sounding bored and uncaring, but he catches Killian’s eye pointedly and nods ever so slightly as he shifts his position again.

Will Scarlet knows his own kind too.

 _Excellent_.

“Will and I have a session right now,” Belle continues, oblivious, “but I thought I’d introduce you two while I’ve got you both here. Will is from the 1800s, Killian, but he’s English like you. Maybe you guys can chat later about … about England or something?”

That sounds like a horrifying topic of conversation – England holds nothing but painful memories for Killian –but he nods at Belle anyways.

Belle smiles at that, pleased, and turns to Will. “You go ahead, okay? I just want to give Killian something and then I’ll be right with you.”

He shrugs, still looking highly disinterested, and departs in a slouching walk. Belle watches with a small frown, but then shrugs herself. She starts ruffling in her satchel, withdrawing a thick, colourful book, that she grasps tightly in her hands.

“I know it doesn’t look like much,” she says at his raised eyebrows, opening it and flipping through a few pages, but Killian actually thinks it looks like quite a lot. Bright yellows and blues and reds and every colour in between are splashed across each page, quite obnoxiously so, and the written words are popping in and out of the pictures as if they wish to pop right off the pages.

“What is that?” he asks, disdainfully.

“It’s technically a kids’ book,” she explains, flipping a few more pages. “One they usually give ESL kids – that’s English as a second language – but I think it’ll be helpful for you too. At least for now, it’s all I could get on short notice –”

“A children’s book,” Killian repeats, coldly, and he shakes his head. “No, thank you. I don’t need anything to help me learn English. I already speak it; it was my first language far before it was yours.”

“I know but – but your English is a bit … outdated. And I think –” she continues, in a firmer voice at Killian’s dark glare “– if you learn some modern English terms, that’ll be a great first step for you in adjusting to the world now!” His glare only darkens, and she sighs. “At least give it a try.” She pushes the book into his arms, and smiles pleadingly at him. “Please?”

He has no intention of doing so, but in the short time he’s known Belle, he know she won’t give up until he’s accepted her proposal. “Fine.”

She smiles, and pats him on the shoulder before moving to follow Will. “See you later, Killian!”

He watches her walk off with Will with a glower, and then turns it to the book in his arms. He has no real intention of looking through it, highly offended that Belle has determined that _his_ English is the strange one when he can hardly understand her strange accent half the time, but he takes it with him as he searches the room for a seat.

He scans the room, catching the eye of several other returnees who have noticed him now. No one looks particularly friendly – some send him downright sneers – and Killian has no desire to get to know any of them anyways so when he spots an empty table, he moves to sit there instead.

He settles himself down, and places the exercise book beside him, shoving it firmly off to the side. Instead, he people-watches for a bit, feeling a bit overwhelmed again by the sheer sight and sound of so many others after days basically alone, but he relishes the feeling, basks in it.

It’s a thousand times better than the silence of his own mind.

The tables nearby are full of chattering returnees, most of them still eating breakfast. At the table nearest to him is a pair of returnees, a blond man and a dark haired woman, sat side-by-side with their arms wrapped so tightly around each other Killian has a hard time telling whose arms are whose. They’re speaking, in low frantic voices to a red haired man with circular glasses and a rather itchy-looking (even for Killian’s standards) beige sweater.

Just the sight of them, so clearly desperate and relieved at the other’s presence and so clearly people who have known each other for years, creates a sudden, sharp pang of loneliness in Killian’s chest. This couple – whoever they are – have found each other again, amongst the sea of chaos and confusion they’ve all landed in. They have _someone_ , someone who knows them from before, who knew their life and _them_ , before the madness they’ve fallen into.

But Killian? He’s realizing now, selfishly late, that everyone he ever knew, everyone he ever spoke to or dealt with or even brushed against on the street are all gone. Even the babes that were born the very day he disappeared are all dead now, having grown up and lived and died.

And they’ve all been dead for centuries.

His crew, Smee and Starkey and Mullins and Teynte and all the others – all dead. The tavern girls and the bartenders he’d seen that last night – dead. The Navy captains and admirals who’d chased him for years – gone.

Everyone, just dead.

And here he is – alive. For no bloody reason.

And, as the conversation beside him begins escalating in volume, the voices carrying over to him as clear as the harbour’s morning bell, a dawning realization settles upon Killian, cold and heavy in his belly.

He’s absolutely, utterly alone.

There’s no one in this world that gives a damn about him, either positively or negatively. His crew had respected him as a captain, would have followed him to the end of the seas if he asked, and the English crown had wanted him dead and captured for his mutiny, hung like a warning to other pirates such as he. Either way, he’d had a purpose, a life to live. Escape the crown, avenge Liam’s death, lead his crew to riches and treasure, be the best damn pirate he could be.

And now … he has nothing and no one.

The conversation going on beside is now too loud for him to ignore totally, and though Killian knows its impolite and bad form to eavesdrop on what is clearly a private conversation, he allows the voices to wash over him, welcoming the distraction from his own dark thoughts, thoughts that are threatening to flood over him like a strong wave, a black current desperate to drown him in despair.

Though the conversation going on beside him isn’t much better. The man and the woman are both nearly in tears, and the man is saying, desperately, “But you _must_ be able to find her, Dr. Hopper. She was barely two hours old when – when we disappeared. And we weren’t too far off the road, someone _must’ve_ heard her crying and come to save her. So there has to be a record of her, where she was found, what hospital they took her to afterwards and where she went from there.”

“We’re doing all we can,” the other man, Dr. Hopper if Killian assumes correctly, replies. His voice is soft and soothing, as calm as can be, and he continues, “These things take time, you must understand that, David, it’s only been a week since you returned –”

The man – David – slams his hand on the table then, making the other man, the woman, and even Killian himself all flinch. “A week too long! It’s been twenty-eight _years_ , we can’t afford to wait even another _day_ to find her. She’s been without us for years, she probably thinks the absolute _worst_ of us! You have to let us go, we need to go find her –”

Dr. Hopper shakes his head firmly. “I’m sorry, David, that is not an option yet, you know that. It’s still too unsafe to let any of you out there, not until we know … know more about what’s gone on.”

David looks like he wants to argue, but the woman speaks then. “Then _you_ have to find her. If we can’t search ourselves … you have to.”

“We are looking, Mary Margaret,” Dr. Hopper says, a clear note of frustration in his tone now, “but as I’ve told you, there are many things still to be considered. The girl could’ve been adopted by a family, raised without the knowledge of how she was found, or – and I know you do not want to hear this possibility – but you did tell me it was a cold day in October, there is a _chance_ that she was not found in time –”

“No,” Mary Margaret interrupts loudly, and she shoots Dr. Hopper such a severe look the man falls silent instantly. “I would know if my daughter was …” she trails off, her voice cracking, and shakes her head. “There’s no way. I refuse to believe it. Someone found her, saved her, and now we need to find her.”

Dr. Hopper sighs again, looking like he wants to say something, but then twists in his seat, as if sensing Killian’s gaze burning into him. He catches Killian’s eye before Killian can look away, and the counsellor frowns slightly before rising from the table, gesturing to the couple. “Let’s move this conversation to my office, shall we?”

The couple rise too, but Killian doesn’t look back to see if they’ve noticed him as the reason for why Dr. Hopper wants some more privacy. He tugs the exercise book closer as the three walk off, feigning interest in it, and only looks back up when he hears their footsteps fade into the hum of the crowd.

A lost daughter, he thinks absently. Well, it appears he’s not the only one left alone by this situation after all.

He watches around the room a bit more, but gets bored of that quickly. Everyone else is preoccupied with their own activities now, and he even spots several other returnees with books like his open in front of them.

He looks down to his own copy, and frowns distastefully at its obnoxiousness. But as he stares at it, though it’s the last thing he wants to do, it is _something_ to do at least. Something to keep his mind off the dark thoughts of loneliness and the rather futile thoughts of escape from earlier. He’s not given up entirely on that – he still needs to have a chat with that Will Scarlet but … but with the guards all armed with futuristic pistols and who knows what other manner of weapons, it looks he’s going to be trapped here for the foreseeable future. If that Dr. Hopper won’t even agree to let desperate parents out to search for a missing child, then he doubts a man such as himself will be getting a free pass any time soon.

As such, he might as well do what’s he’s told. Act like the perfect little prisoner, let the guards and the counsellors and the agents and everyone else here get comfortable with him. And then, when the time is right, he can act.

And fine, as he flips the book open to a rather daunting page full of barnyard animals, he’s a bit curious. He’s a pirate; by nature he’s never been very good at avoiding exciting and shiny things, and this book is certainly shiny if nothing else.

And so, feeling rather silly and morbidly thankful for a brief moment that indeed everyone he knows is dead and can’t see him now, Killian starts the page’s exercise and lets the tedium absorb his thoughts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you say it, yes, I promise Killian and Emma will interact again in the next chapter, I know it's been forever haha. But unfortunately, I just recently found out a prerequisite course I took for my master's degree doesn't count so I have to take another one, and basically finish it within 6 weeks, so updates after this may be a bit slower for a bit until I can get that sorted out :/ But in the meantime, thanks so much for reading!! I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying this fic as much as I am :)


	5. chapter v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments and kudos! I'm very blessed to have all of you reading and enjoying this fic :)

It takes Emma the better part of twenty-five minutes to get past all the reporters and cameras crowding Storybrooke’s main gate and onto the campus. The reporters don’t know who she is by sight, but as she’s being allowed in, they swarm her car, yelling through her closed windows for a comment. And by the time Emma’s finally made through them all and onto the campus, she’s lost all remnants of her good mood from that morning. She’s not the only one, though; everyone she passes on her way to her office look just like she feels: stressed and grumbly and sour.

She’s just arrived in her office, stripping off her heavy winter coat and scarf to leave her only in her thin white sweater, when her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she slips it out. It’s a text from Graham, asking if she’s arrived yet and to come meet him in the cafeteria when she does – they’ve already moved Killian Jones into the main area.

She’s a bit irritated – he’s _her_ returnee, after all – but she knows its her grouchiness talking and she sends Graham nothing more than a simple confirmation as she heads off.

The grounds are cold that morning, and she’s thankful she at least kept her sweater on, no matter how thin it is, as she hurries over to the barracks. She shows her ID to the guards at the door, and they wave her in. The rush of warm air welcomes her and she hurries to the thick double doors that lead into the cafeteria. It’s loud in there, full of chattering returnees finishing up their breakfast, and Emma’s barely been in there for a few moments when someone calls her name.

“Emma!”

She turns, and spots Graham standing along the wall near the cafeteria window, waving at her.

“Hey Graham. How are things going?”

He sighs, deep and dramatic. “It’s been chaos since last night, since that bloody blog post surfaced. And true, the return of all these people was going to come out eventually but we all just wish _we’d_ been the ones to announce it.”

“No leads on who leaked it then?”

Graham shakes his head. “No. Regina’s on a rampage, trying to figure it out. Commander Gold is threatening to take over operations too if they can’t find out who it is, so you can imagine how that’s only helping the situation.”

Emma sighs, trying to ignore the flutter of fear that arises when she thinks about Gold being fully in charge. Regina may be a controlling tyrant, but at least she’s a familiar one. “I hope she can figure it out,” she says, and she really means it.

Graham nods. “Me too. And oh,” he says, shifting a bit and pulling a file up from the ledge at the cafeteria window, “before I forget: Jones’ file. He’s here, somewhere. Belle French was with him earlier, but I just saw her leave with another returnee, so I’m not sure where he’s at now.”

Emma nods, ready to take the file and head off to find Killian when a dark haired woman comes up to them, nervousness and anxiety written across her face. As Emma looks at her closer, with a start, she recognizes her. It’s the same woman she collided with that first night at the beach, the returned mother looking for her husband and child.

“Mary Margaret,” Graham greets, smiling kindly, all traces of his earlier worry gone in the face of a returnee. “How are you today?”

“Fine,” she says, though her voice is distracted and Emma wonders if she even heard the question. “I’m glad I found you. David went ahead with Dr. Hopper but I – I wanted to see you. Have you any news about my daughter?”

Emma’s heart pangs in sympathy for her; she can’t imagine going through what she has and then not being able to find her child on top of it. Storybrooke has started the reunification process with a few people already, mostly for those who had family nearby or weren’t missing for very long, but they’re having to be extra careful after an incident on the third day. Guinevere, the young English woman who Emma had helped out the other day, had been estranged from her husband before her disappearance but he’d been notified of her return before the agents talked to her and so, they’re having to be super careful with who gets reunited and who doesn’t. It’s taking them much longer than it should, but it’s what they have to do to ensure the safety of everyone here.

“I’m still waiting to hear,” Graham says, reassuringly, and Emma’s attention snaps back to him. “The records are all sealed, so it’s going to take some time. And if everything goes to plan, we’ll still have to run DNA samples to make sure of everything too so … it will still be quite a while.”  

Mary Margaret frowns. “There’s nothing to speed it along?”

“No,” Emma says, gently, and Mary Margaret looks to her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re working as hard as we can.”

She looks unbearably sad at another rejection, but she nods glumly. “Okay. I know you’re doing all you can, it’s just … it’s just hard.”

Emma nods in sympathy, her heart twinging once more.

Mary Margaret smiles, weakly then. “Well I’d better catch up to David. Thanks, Graham. And Agent … ?”

“Swan,” Emma says, quickly, not surprised that the woman doesn’t remember her. “Emma Swan.”

Mary Margaret’s face pales then, as suddenly as if she’s seen a ghost and she takes an abrupt step backwards. “Emma?” she echoes, and her eyes survey her up and down, drinking her image in as if she was a woman dying of thirst. “That’s your name?”

Emma exchanges a small look with Graham – _maybe she does remember her from the lake?_ – but she nods and smiles pleasantly. “Um, yes. I think – I think we may have met briefly the first night?”

Mary Margaret blinks at her, and then shakes her head, as if breaking out of whatever trance she was in. “Oh yes,” she says, her voice breathless. “Sorry. I – it’s just – it’s just my daughter. Her name was – _is_ – Emma too.”

Cold, chilling shivers run down Emma’s spine at that, as if someone has dropped an ice cube down the back of her shirt, and she momentarily can’t think of anything to say. She looks to Graham, silently begging him to jump back into the conversation. He’s staring between Mary Margaret and Emma, eyes narrowed, but he quickly schools his expression into a neutral one when he catches Emma’s eye.

“Did you say David was off with Dr. Hopper?” he says, turning to Mary Margaret. “I can escort you up to his office if you like.”

She’s still staring at Emma, but she slowly turns her head, reluctantly, to face Graham. “Okay.” She shoots Emma another look over her shoulder as they depart, and Emma watches them go, still unnerved herself.

Once they’ve left the cafeteria, Emma shakes herself and forces the lingering feelings of unease away. She leans against the wall, propping Killian Jones’ file open on the window ledge, and looks through it, forcing her mind back to the work mindset. Her own report from the first night is there, along with a couple copies of Belle’s notes on their first meetings and medical records – what vaccinations and antibiotics he was given, that his blood and viral titre was clear of any infections, and that his physical exams were all normal. Nothing else of value, really, and she closes the file as she starts looking around the room for him.

It’s crowded, and she has to wander through the aisles of tables until she finally spots him, at a table near the wide windows at the back of the room.

He looks wildly different than before, but Emma would still recognize that dark hair and blue eyes in any crowded room. He’s now dressed in the same blue scrubs as everyone else, looking entirely normal amongst the sea of other returnees and nothing like his leather clad self. It’s almost startling, seeing him looking normal, but there is still an air about him, something that screams _I am not friendly, I am dangerous, stay away from me_. She’s clearly not the only one who has sensed this, for while the most of the other returnees are seated together at crowded tables, Killian sits alone.

He's totally focused on a large book open in front of him and from here, it looks like some sort of school exercise book to Emma, with bright illustrations and arrows pointing to different objects, and for a strange reason, her heart aches at the sight. Seeing the man who’d arrived back in this world in full leather garb, looking as lethal as they come, now completely focused on a children’s learning book is somehow both hilariously amusing and terribly heart-wrenching.

Emma pauses at his table, shifting a bit to stuff her hands into the backs of her pants, feeling a bit awkward. The first time she’d interacted with him had been so charged with emotion that seeing him in a more normal environment … well it unsettles her a bit. He seems better today, though, far less panicked and hostile; his eyes are focused – so focused on the book that he hasn’t even noticed her standing there yet – and without the thick eyeliner, he looks younger and calmer, more like a modern man and not at all like the crazed leather fiend she’d seen the first day. So, pushing past that uncomfortableness, Emma clears her throat and says, “How are you feeling today?”

He glances up from the exercise book, and his furrowed brow shifts into a surprised smile. “Swan,” he greets in his old-timey accent that only reinforces his difference from the rest of the room. “What are you doing here?”

She smiles, and takes the seat opposite him. “I heard today’s your first day out in the common area so I thought I’d come say hi. How’s it going so far?”

He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal, but Emma sees the forced casualness to the movement. “It’s fine. Quite the change from being locked up in a silent room for a week.” He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes, and says, “I take it it was your suggestion to send those scientists in there to ‘vaccinate’ me before they let me out?”

Emma almost smiles at the sour expression on his face, but simply says, “Our head doctor, Dr. Whale was concerned with the health of every individual, especially those from a time period where vaccines weren’t invented yet or available, and the CDC – that’s the Centre for Disease Control – were concerned because –”

“Oh, I know all about their concerns,” he interrupts with a scowl. “They told me about them _many_ times.”

She almost grins again, but changes the subject instead, tapping the open book in front of him. “What are you up to?”

He looks back down, and to her surprise, a light blush colours his cheeks. “It’s a children’s book. For learning English, I believe. Belle said that learning ‘modern English’ will be useful for me, but so far I’ve failed to see the purpose.” He gestures to the page then, which is displaying a brightly drawn busy street with cars and buses and pedestrians and stores and so much activity it almost hurts Emma’s eyes. He presses a finger on a bright yellow car, one that amusedly remind Emma of her very own car outside in the parking lot, and reads out, dully, “A car.” He looks back up to her, and continues dryly, “Carriage, car. It appears words haven’t changed that much from my day.”

Emma smiles a bit. “Yeah, I think you’ll catch on quickly to the language. I’m actually surprised you don’t actually speak like a character out of Shakespeare,” she adds, thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve heard one _‘_ wherefore art thou _’_ or ‘to be or not to be.’”

He snorts. “You offend me, Swan. I’m not _that_ old. Shakespeare predates me by at least a century and a half. His language was old fashioned, even in my day.” He glances down to the book again, and his eyes darken. “Though it was far more interesting than this dribble.” He clears his throat, and quotes, “‘Jane waves at her neighbours as she leaves the house, and crosses the street only when it’s safe.’” He looks back to her, exasperated, and says, “Is this really considered literature today?”

Emma laughs. “Come on, it’s not that bad. It’s for kids, after all.”

He snorts again, and flips the page dramatically. The next one is of a colourful classroom, and Emma expects another cutting jab, but instead Killian frowns, pausing over it.

“Actually, I do have a question,” he says, and he points to the cartoon chalkboard where the words to the American Declaration of Freedom are drawn out, the hung American flag overhead intricate with its stars and stripes. “This book keeps referring to ‘the United States of America’. I know you mentioned it the first night, but … what is that?”

Right. Killian is from a time when the American colonies were nothing more than a British foothold, and disappeared before the American Revolution even took place.

He’s really missed a hell of a lot.

“Oh, yeah. I guess you wouldn’t know. Well, the history of how it started is all is a bit complicated but it’s the country we’re in now.”

He frowns. “I thought you said we were in Boston.”

“Yeah, we are but – basically a few years after you … disappeared … the people in the colonies overthrew the British authorities and started their own country instead. The United States of America.”

He looks to her sharply then, an unreadable look in his eyes. “So Boston is no longer under English law?”

Emma can’t help the way her eyes narrow at that question, Gold’s warning from the previous day echoing through her mind – _Killian Jones was one of the most wanted criminals in the known world when he was alive_ – and she knows exactly why he’s asking that.

It’s a stark reminder that, no matter how he’s dressed and how often he rolls his eyes at children’s books and makes jokes about Shakespeare, the man in front of her is still a dangerous criminal. And though she still thinks it was the right decision to not send him off to jail, Emma can’t deny that Gold is right too – in Killian’s mind, he was a pirate only days ago, not centuries, and if what she’s read is the truth, there was no love lost between him and the English authorities.

“No,” she replies, carefully. “We have our own laws now. But,” she can’t help but add, “we’re still close allies with the UK.”

If he notices her tension at his question, he doesn’t let it show as a rather sly smile lifts his features instead. “So I’m in a country of rebels,” he murmurs. “Perhaps I will fit in here after all.”

It’s the first, brief mention of his past, and Emma wants to jump on it, to use it to pry more into his history, hear the story from him instead of the internet, but then there’s a shrill ringing that breaks the moment before she gets a chance.

It’s her pager, beeping insistently, and Killian flinches in alarm. Emma quickly pulls it out to turn off the noise, and Killian’s eyes fall instantly on the little device.

“What the bloody hell is that?”

“It’s just my pager,” she says, assuredly, and she quickly reads the message, which is from Regina: _Immediate_ _Meeting, Board Room A_. “It’s – uh – a way to communicate. A pretty outdated way, really, but it works.” She almost winces when she says _outdated_ because, hello, it’s still a thousand times more advanced than anything Killian would’ve seen in his life, and damn, she can be insensitive sometimes, but _seriously Emma, get it together_.

Killian hasn’t noticed her faux pas, still entranced by the pager. “Your world is strange,” he declares. “Small devices for communication, magic lights, ‘showers’. Very strange indeed.”

She frowns at the way he says _your world_ with such a bitter tang to it, and she slips the pager back onto her belt.

Regina can wait.

“It’s your world too,” she says quietly, and he just snorts. “It is. I know – I know that it’s been years for you, but it’s still _your_ world. Things are just … a bit different now.”

He stares at her, expression unreadable. “I appreciate the effort, Swan,” he says, though the tight smile he then gives her doesn’t reach his eyes. “But from the little I’ve seen and heard, it hasn’t been my world for a very long time.” He surveys her then, blue eyes trailing her body up and down, and he says, with a bit more cheer, “For one thing, women wearing trousers as if it’s not something to cause a scandal.”

Emma doesn’t even roll her eyes at his cheek; she knows a deflection when she sees one. He looks back to the book, shifting a bit and clearly trying to say _this conversation is now over_ , but Emma doesn’t play that game. She leans closer, and reaches forward to shut the book.

“Tell me about it,” she says, gently as he meets her eyes again, gaze carefully guarded. “ _Your_ world. What was it like?”

He regards her for a few moments, silent. “What does it matter?” he says finally, his words biting. “It’s gone.”

The sadness in his voice, the resignation … Emma’s heart hurts.

“I know,” she says, quietly. “But it’s _not_ for you. So tell me about it.”

He stares at her again, eyes scrutinizing, stubbornly quiet. But Emma’s just as stubborn, and she stares back at him until he sighs.

“It could be very dangerous,” he says, and his voice then turns distant, his eyes faraway as he remembers a time now forever lost to him. “Your world seems hell-bent on saving everyone from every sort of disease, but then death from disease was as common as everything. I know – _knew –_ dozens who had perished from the very diseases your scientists vaccinated me with and I didn’t even think twice about it.” He pauses, as if searching his mind, and he glances absently around the room, at all the other returnees. That sparks something and he continues, “And everyone was close-minded and fearful too – there’s no chance in hell that if thousands of people showed up as we have here that any government of the day would’ve welcomed us back. Killed us all as witches on the spot, they would’ve.”

He looks around again, looking for more things to compare against, and Emma sees his gaze sadden suddenly. She looks too, and sees that he’s looking at Anna and Elsa who are hugging a few tables over, arms tight around each other.

“But,” he says, and his voice is rougher then, sadder somehow too. “You’re right in a way, Swan. Families still loved each other, still yearned to be reunited in times of separation. That hasn’t changed.”

He trails off, and Emma lets the silence sit between them. She feels oddly sad now too – sad for him. The world he speaks of is a gloomy place, full of death and mistreatment and fear with only small glimmers of brightness, but still. It was a world he lived in, the only world he knew, and it’s gone from him. And the way he spoke about families, the way his expression changed when he saw the sisters, reunited after impossible odds, Emma knows there’s some personal, painful history there too.

And it surprises her, but she wants to know it. She knows the facts – his whole family was long gone by the time he disappeared. But those are just words on a page, hardly deserving of nothing more than footnote in a life’s biography, and Emma wants to know _more_. She wants to know what those facts really mean to him, what those losses did to him. To know it for more than just a note to put down in his file, but to know _him_.

He’s staring off into the distance, lost in his own thoughts, and Emma clears her throat. “I’ll tell you what, Killian.” He looks back to her, quizzical, and she continues, “Every time you see something new here, ask me about it. I’ll tell you all about it, I’ll even do some research on things if you like, and in return, you tell me about something in _your_ time. We’ll learn about each other’s worlds and maybe … maybe you’ll discover some more things about _now_ that’s similar to _then_.”

He looks dubious, almost a little bit suspicious too, but also surprised, as if he can’t quite fathom why she would even care.

When it becomes apparent he’s not going to say anything, Emma takes the initiative. “You said you had a ship. Were you a sailor?”

It’s a test, perhaps a highly unfair one. She wants to see what he’ll say, if he’ll tell her the truth. She’s really given him no reason to trust her yet, but she wonders …

But still, she’s not surprised when he hesitates, narrowing his eyes slightly at her. “Of a sort,” he replies finally, voice careful.

She wants to ask more questions, but before she gets the chance, her pager goes off again, breaking the moment. And by the time she’s looked at the message – from Regina, an angry _where are you?_ – and back up to Killian, his face has shifted, back into a distant, guarded expression and he simply regards her coolly.

“I take it you’ve been summoned?”

She grimaces – _why did the meeting have to be_ right _now? –_ but gets to her feet regardless. “Yeah. Sorry, but I’ll see you later, okay?”

He just shrugs in response, tugging the exercise book closer and flipping it open again. “All right.”

She wants to linger, but her pager goes off again, and she sighs as she turns on her heel and heads off. Her step to the doors is brisk, mind still caught up with Killian, and it’s not till she’s right near the doors leading directly outside that she notices Elsa – Anna’s sister – standing there, talking loudly to one of the guards.

“I want to go outside.”

“Sorry, miss, but there are no walks today.”

Elsa’s lips thin, and she rests her hands on her hips. “I won’t go alone, if that’s the problem. I’ll ask my counsellor to come with me.”

The guard shakes his head, and he even shifts his weight a bit to block more of the door. “Sorry, but I have my orders. Besides, it’s too cold out there today anyways.”

“The cold has never bothered me,” Elsa replies almost instantaneously. She sighs, taking a deep breath and says, in a much more pleading tone, “I just want to go outside. Please.”

The guard looks more sympathetic now, but he still shakes his head. “I’m sorry, miss.”

Elsa looks like she wants to keep fighting, but the guard’s face is stern, and Emma knows there’s nothing the woman can say that will make him change his mind. Elsa seems to sense this too, and she bestows a very frosty glare upon the guard. “Fine.”

She turns, and Emma ends up passing right by her as she moves back into the cafeteria. As she does, there’s a sudden chilliness in the air, seemingly trailing literally off Elsa’s steps and sending goosebumps scattering down Emma’s spine. She glances back, a bit startled, but Elsa’s still moving, apparently unperturbed by the sudden cold spot.

Weird, Emma thinks vaguely as she turns back and continues on her way, running her hands up her arms against the unnatural chill that still lingers in the air. The air conditioning is off – it’s January, after all – and the doors leading outside are still firmly shut. Emma wonders briefly if someone had opened up one of the windows for some fresh air, but a quick look behind her shows that all the windows are shut too; even more goosebumps raise on her arms at that.

She shakes her head, putting it down in her mind as _well that was weird_ and continues on her way, out into the cold January air and off to the meeting, the thought dissipating on the cold wind.

<> 

After Swan departs, Killian turns back to the exercise book, though his mind is faraway and he hardly takes in the sentences he’s reading.

Swan’s offer of trading stories had surprised him, and he has to admit, his first thought had been that perhaps he won’t be so alone here after all. But that had been a fleeting, foolish thought, one he banished quickly. No matter what Swan said about wanting to know about his time, Killian’s natural mistrust had flared up, and he finds himself questioning her motivations. She seems sincere enough, wanting to know simply to know, but sincere words often come laced with poison and Killian can’t take the chance he’s wrong about her.

Besides all that – she can be sincere as she wants right now. She doesn’t know him, doesn’t know who he is or what he’s done, and when she does, she’ll want nothing to do with him.

And so, when he spots Will Scarlet, slouching back into the cafeteria a few minutes later, he nonchalantly catches the man’s eyes and gestures him over with a quick incline of his head.

He sees Will nod once, and he swaggers over a few minutes later, plopping down across from Killian with a dramatic sigh. “So,” he says, pulling Killian’s book closer to himself and picking at the edges. “England.”

Killian snorts, and he pointedly leans across the table to grab the book back. “Let’s not waste our time, beating around the bush,” he says, curtly, and Will’s eyes widen a bit in surprise at his bluntness. “We may both be from England, but that’s not our only similarity. You’re no honest gentleman, mate, and neither am I.”

Will’s eyebrows arch in response, and he leans back, appraising Killian. “That so?” he says, coolly. “What would you be then, eh, _mate_?”

Even though this is Killian’s whole plan, still he hesitates. He’s taking a huge risk here, he knows, but he also has no other choice. Trusting Will with this… well, it could be his only way out, his only chance. He works better on his own, has since Liam’s death all those years ago, but there’s no way he’ll be able to do get out of here solo. There’s too many variables, too many eyes always watching. No, Killian needs someone else and before he can talk himself out, he says, “I’m a pirate.” He flashes a grin then, open-mouthed and dangerous, and adds, “And a damn good one at that.”  

But Will’s reaction is mild, to say the least. His arched brow rises only a slight more, and other than he’s silent, taking in the information, processing.

“Pirate, eh?” he replies, after a few moments. “I’ve never met a pirate before.”

He’s stalling, and Killian swats the air impatiently. “Well, today is your lucky day. Now it’s your turn to share.”

Will shrugs then, and splays his hands out wide. “You got it all wrong, mate. I’m not like you, I’m no criminal. I was a shopkeeper’s apprentice.”

It’s a lie, as clear as a sunny day at sea, and Killian’s eyes darken, his jaw tightening. “Don’t lie to me, Scarlet,” he snarls. “You’re a criminal like me, and once this lot –” he inclines his head to the guards and counsellors and agents scattered around the room – “figure that out, they’re never going to let me or you out of here. And if you’re anything like me, you’ve already spent time trying to figure out how to escape.”

Will just stares sullenly back at him, silently at war with himself on what to reveal and what to keep secret. “And if I have?” he spits out finally. “What do you care?”

Killian smiles dangerously. “Because you’ll know as well as I do that we’ll never succeed by ourselves, and the first bloke who gets caught will ruin it for the other. That’s why _we_ need to work together. Get out of here together before they lock us up for good. I’ve spent my fair share of time in the brig already, and I assume you have too. So let’s get out before they do it to us again.”

Will regards him silently, eyes narrowed. “And what makes you so sure they’d lock us up? Belle’s told me a thousand times we’ll be free to go one day, as soon as –”

“And you trust her?” Killian shakes his head. “They’ll tell us anything they know we want to hear. But once they figure out who we are … that’ll all change. They’ll never let us go. So tell me. What are you, Will Scarlet?”

He stares intensely at Will, who remains impassive, but after a few minutes of their silent staring contest, the other man finally grunts out, “Alright, fine, you got me. I’m a thief.”

Killian isn’t much surprised with that answer: Will has the atmosphere of a thief – shifty and suspicious and constantly jumpy. And though thieves are notoriously unreliable – Killian once spent two nights in a Jamaican prison because of a fly-by-night thief – he’s glad to hear it of Will. For all their unreliability, thieves are useful as all hell.

“A thief and a pirate,” Killian hums, and he leans back to survey Will in more depth, Will mirroring his action with dark, narrowed eyes. “Well, I reckon that if there’s going to be anybody who can get the bloody hell out of here, it’s going to be a pirate and a thief. What do you say?”

He’s silent, considering, and Killian sees his eyes move to the guards all around, to the weapons at their belts. “I think you’re bonkers, mate,” he says a few moments later. “Yeah, sure I’ve thought about it too, but look at them – they’re armed to the teeth. At all the doors. They’re not even letting us out for walks now, I heard this blonde bird ranting about it on my way back in. But let’s say we do get outta this building – the security around this entire place is crazy. I saw it when I came in. Gates and guards, the whole lot. We’d never get away with it.”

“I love a challenge,” Killian replies easily. “But you’re right. It will be hard. That’s why we need each other – our only chance is if we work together. Think about it. We can have our lives back, our _freedom_ back. We’ll never have that if we’re stuck in this place for the rest of our lives. You said it yourself – they even control when we can go for outside. That’s no way to live, and I can only imagine it’ll be worse once they find out who we are.”

Will sighs again, and he glares at Killian. Killian think he’s going to refuse, to tell him to stuff it, but then Will says, “Alright, fine. I’ll help you. But if it looks like we’re gonna get caught, I’m out and you’re on your own.”

Killian’s heart soars, and he doesn’t even acknowledge Will’s vague threat, reaching across the table to shake Will’s hand, sealing the deal.

A word echoes through his mind as they lean back, starting to whisper in low tones about possibilities, growing louder and louder and louder. A word he often chanted to himself during the long and miserable nights of servitude upon merchant ships, a word he believed he was fighting to protect when he joined the Navy, and a word he had chased on the high seas for years afterwards.

 _Freedom_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


	6. chapter vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the great feedback on the fic so far, and hello to all you new readers! I hope you all enjoy this chapter :)

When Emma arrives to the conference room after leaving Killian in the cafeteria, she’s confronted with a tornado of emotions: anger and irritation and fear and even an bit of suspicion. No accusations about who made the leak are outright said, though Gold keeps looking pointedly at several Storybrooke agents, as if he personally blames them for all the trouble, and that unfortunately includes Emma.

She hoped that, after defending Killian Jones, she’d not gotten on his bad side, but that was certainly a false hope. He hardly says two words the entire meeting, just sits there with cold, serpentine eyes, while Regina goes on and on about how they are going to approach the situation now that the news is out. His gaze is heavy, accusing, and he’s clearly one of the angriest in the room, a barely curbed rage stewing underneath his severe demeanour.

Regina’s just as furious, though she can’t seem to keep it all hidden beneath the surface as neatly as Gold does. She levels an especially nasty glare upon Emma when she slips in late, in the middle of a strict lecture on the importance of confidentiality, but continues with her tirade as if she was uninterrupted.

It’s just what Emma expected: questions of how could this have happened and on whose watch did it happen, threats about what will happen when she finds the person responsible, and other such things.

When a notion is brought up when Regina seems to have mildly calmed down a few minutes after Emma arrives, a nervous agent suggesting that perhaps they ought to let the returnees know about the news, Regina all but refuses to hear it. The returnees have enough to deal with, she declares, and they don’t need to know that their return has nearly created a national crisis. They’re still coming to terms with the fact that years or even decades (or centuries) were ripped from them, and having the knowledge that the entire country is absolutely terrified of them would be probably the least helpful thing right now.

The meeting wraps up a few minutes later, with more promises of severe consequences and they all leave with strict instructions that no one is to speak to the media without explicit permission from Regina herself. Emma finds herself in step with Graham out the door; they’re talking about nothing in particular, murmuring about the meeting and such, when Gold’s cold voice slices through their conversation.

“A word, Agent Swan.”

Graham grimaces, and mutters a quick ‘good luck’ before continuing on his way. Emma turns around, reluctantly, and meets Gold’s cold eyes. “Yes?” she asks, trying very hard to be polite.

He regards her with a thin smile, leaning forward on his cane. His anger hasn’t dissipated at all, and his face is a mask of an icy veneer as he stares at her. Emma wonders, momentarily, if he’s going to accuse her of being the leak, but his next words surprise her. “I heard our friend the pirate was released to the general quarters this morning.”

Emma’s eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms over her chest as she stares back at the imposing commander. “Yeah, he was. What about it?”

Gold just shrugs, a rather casual gesture that he somehow manages to get across as menacing. “I was merely wanting to remind you that, with the news of the returnees returning, it is more imperative than ever that our more … _interesting_ guests remain under constant supervision. Should anything happen … well, there will more than just your head on the block now.”

Emma’s not sure who the hell he’s talking about – whether it would be his own head or Killian’s on that block – but either way, she doesn’t like the implication that it would be _her_ fault.

“You don’t need to remind me to do my job, Commander,” she says, only a bit more sharply than she means to. “I know what I have to do.”

“Wonderful,” Gold says softly, and he smiles that icy smile at her. “Then get to it, Agent.”

Emma grits her teeth, but bites back the rude remark she’s got on the tip of her tongue as she turns on her heel, marching away. She can feel Gold’s eyes on her back, and while she would’ve preferred to just head over to her office, to catch up on some paperwork she’s so sorely behind on, that doesn’t really seem like an option right now.

And while Emma would normally never have let someone like _Gold_ boss her around – she’s more the type to do the exact opposite to just piss the person off – with all the tension snaking around Storybrooke lately and the fact that she’s already clearly on his bad side, perhaps it would be wiser to just go along with it.

For now, anyways.

When she arrives back in the cafeteria, thankfully her anger has mostly cooled off. She moves automatically to where Killian had been sitting earlier, but halfway there, she stops in her tracks, taken aback. Unlike earlier, where he had sat alone with a large berth of emptiness around him, he’s now seated at his table with a fellow returnee, a younger man with light brown hair and broad shoulders.

Emma recognizes him, vaguely, from the first night as one of the returnees she’d done a quick profile on. But she can’t place his name in her mind – lost in the sea of the hundreds of new names she’s had to learn this last week – and as she watches the two men speak in low voices, an uneasy feeling that she can’t quite place settles over her, as heavy as a lead weight in her belly.

To start, Killian hadn’t struck her as the outgoing, cheery type, and she wonders (a bit unkindly) how he managed to make a friend so quickly. Besides that, there’s still a wide gap of any other returnees nearby, everyone else still giving that table lots of room as if now it’s not just one unfriendly presence there, but two instead.

She glances around and by chance spots Belle French, Killian’s counsellor, just rising from another table, arms full of books and she moves quickly to catch her.

“Hey Belle,” Emma calls, and the counsellor turns.

“Oh hi, Emma! How’s it going?”

“Good,” she replies. “Do you have a minute? I have a question.”

“Of course. What’s up?”

Emma tilts her head, back towards Killian and his fellow at the table. “Do you know who that is, talking to Killian Jones?”

Belle looks, and she exclaims, a bit surprised, “Oh, that’s Will Scarlet!”

Emma searches her memory for a Will Scarlet, and it finally clicks. He was indeed one of her first profiles, a young English man who was old like Killian, though still nearly a century younger. He’d been obstinate and irritated with her, she remembers, hardly answering her questions and only deeming her one-word answers when absolutely necessary.

Belle continues, drawing Emma’s attention back to her. “I introduced him to Killian this morning, he’s one of my other patients, but I can’t believe they’re actually talking.”

Emma frowns. “Why would you say that?”

“Well, Will’s pretty quiet … like Killian, I suppose. Doesn’t say much. And they both seemed rather disinterested this morning when I introduced them, too. I didn’t expect they’d actually end up chatting.”

That uneasy feeling only spreads then, and a strange warning bell begins softly whirring in her mind. Emma considers Will and Killian further: even from here, she can tell they’re talking in whispers, rather conspiratorially if she says so herself, and her frown deepens. She can’t remember off the top of her head much of what Will said, and so she asks, “What do you know about him?”

Belle shrugs, shifting the books in her arms. “About Will? Not much, honestly. There’s no real records on him that we’ve been able to track down yet and all he says is that he was a shopkeeper’s apprentice in London. Robin Locksley is his primary agent, he may know more than me right now, I’m so swamped with everything else.”

Emma’s still frowning, unconvinced, when someone behind her calls Belle’s name. She smiles apologetically and continues on her way with a small squeeze to Emma’s forearm as she passes.

She barely registers Belle’s departure, mind still caught up with Will Scarlet. Something about _shopkeeper’s apprentice_ rings false to Emma. She knows she can be a bit judgey at times but … but her gut instinct about people is usually right and shopkeeper’s apprentice that man is not.

But before she can get the chance to decide how to approach this situation, Killian looks over Will’s shoulder and spots her standing there. His eyes widen a bit, and he murmurs something quickly to Will, who tenses. They speak quietly for a moment more, and then Will rises, departing the table without another word.

Emma swears silently, but smiles at Killian, who has turned his gaze back to her, and moves over to join him nonetheless.

“Swan,” Killian greets as she nears, and his voice gives away nothing. “What are you doing back here?”

She shrugs, and takes the seat beside him. “Just thought I’d check how things are going.” She inclines her head to Will’s retreating figure and asks, as innocent as can be, “Where’s your friend off too?”

Killian’s eyes are sharp and alert, and he says, simply, “To have a kip before the midday meal.”

Emma hums in thought, ready to question Killian about Will some more because damn if her gut feeling can’t be ignored, but then she frowns. Speaking of someone off to have a nap … she wonders if anyone has even bothered to show Killian where his new room is.

“Did anyone show you your room yet?”

He frowns at her. “Am I not to return to my cell at the end of the day?”

“No, no,” she says automatically, mentally cringing that he still calls it a _cell._ “You’re not in isolation anymore, you’re in with the rest of the returnees. You’ve been assigned at bunk upstairs with some of the other guys.” She pauses, torn then between wanting to know what Killian and Will were talking about – her gut shouting that she should know, that it’s something important, to not ignore her instincts – but … he doesn’t even know where he’s going to be sleeping that night yet. And she realizes that if she doesn’t show Killian where to go, he probably won’t know until way later this evening when one of the guards finally realizes that he has no idea where to go.

And in the end, her compassion in wanting to make sure Killian has some time to adjust to his new sleeping quarters wins out over her nosiness. “Come on,” she says, getting to her feet. “I’ll show you.”

He looks a bit taken aback, but he carefully schools his face as he follows her out of the cafeteria and to the main foyer, children’s book tucked under his arm. The sleeping quarters occupy the second floor and she leads him up the flight of stairs. She notices, from the corner of her eye, that his eyes are watchful, taking note of each exit and window as they pass. He focuses a bit too long on the main exit doors at the bottom of the foyer, and Emma’s feeling of unease only deepens.

The returnees are in no way prisoners here – not even Killian, no matter how much Gold wants him to be – and will be allowed to leave when they are deemed fit (and, perhaps, when the outside world has calmed down a bit) but Emma wonders if anyone has explained that to Killian. Even if they have, she wonders if he believes it. He’s clearly distrustful, and if his past is to be believed, he spent most of his last years running from a government he probably views as similar to hers.

But surely he’s not foolish enough to try to get out of here on his own?

“No walks today,” Emma says, and Killian’s eyes snap to hers. He’s smooth though, and gives no indication that he was thinking anything else.

“I heard that,” he replies. “Why not?”

_Because there are hundreds of journalists and cameras out there waiting for even a glimpse of one of the returnees and if they see you, you’ll be even more traumatized than you already are and both Regina and Gold will kill me._

Emma just shrugs. “It’s too cold out.”

He regards her curiously, and to her surprise, reaches out to fiddle with the bottom of her white sweater, twisting the fabric between his fingers. “And yet you are wearing only a thin blouse,” he murmurs.

Damn it. He’s too observant for his own good.

His fingers brush the bare skin of her side as he thumbs the fabric further, and Emma feels a jolt run right through her, sparking from where he touches her. She abruptly tugs her sweater from his grasp and, hoping he can’t hear the slight raise in pitch of her voice, says, “Well, when you’re running back and forth across campus, you get a little hot.”

He just raises an eyebrow at her. “Right.”

Emma clears her throat, still a bit unsettled, but pushes the feeling aside. “Okay, come on. Your room is 204 – just down this hall.”

She leads him further, turning left into a wide hallway. She comes to a stop in front of said Room 204 a few more paces down the hall, and swings the door open. The room is relatively large, enough for two sets of bunk beds and even a large chest of drawers against the near wall for storage. A thin set of muslin curtains cover the window, letting only faint sunlight filter in to create a muted winter glow in the room. Three of the four bunks are clearly occupied, with mussed sheets and some scattered personal belongings, while the fourth bunk, the top one nearest the window, is still unoccupied.

The room is quiet and empty as of now, and Emma flips the light switch on the wall as she moves further in, illuminating the room with bright light.

“So this is your room – Killian?”

The room is suddenly plunged into darkness again, and when Emma turns she sees Killian standing at the wall where she just was, fingers resting on the light switch.

“Sorry,” he says when he catches her raised eyebrows, though an impish grin then lifts his features and he flips the light a couple more times, alternatively brightening and darkening the room.

Emma can’t help but chuckle at the boyish mirth on his face as he turns the lights back on for the final time. “I take it that’s something new to you then?”

He nods. “Aye. Your scientists tried to explain it to me earlier. Elec-electricity I believe they said?”

He nearly stumbles over the word, clearly foreign on his tongue, and Emma knows he has no idea what that is. Remembering their conversation from earlier, where she promised to explain this world to him, she says, “Yeah. It’s basically – well, you know lightning, right? It’s similar to that, but way less powerful and it lasts way longer too. And you can control it, like you did with the switch there.”

He just stares at her, before looking back to the light switch and then shakes his head in wonder. “I have much to learn about this world.”

 _This world_ is far better than _your world_ from earlier this morning and Emma decides to count it as a small victory. “It’ll get easier. Promise.”

Killian shrugs, as if he doesn’t much believe that, and moves further into the room. But he pauses halfway to the free bunk, a strange, wistful expression appearing on his face as he looks around the room.

“You okay?”

He nods absently. “I’m fine. This room … it just reminds me of when I was in the Navy.”

Emma pauses before asking her next question, sort of regretting that she already knows this and so much more about him. She should’ve let him tell her the story as it came naturally, got to know him and not just the biographical SparkNotes from snooping behind his back, but oh well. What’s done is done.

“You were in the Navy?”

Killian hesitates in turn before he answers, and Emma can see the quick flicker of regret at letting that slip out. “I was,” he says, finally, carefully setting down the exercise book on the free bed as to stake a claim. “Once upon a time.”

A quiet silence falls upon them then, and after a few moments, Emma asks, softly, “Do you want to talk about it? I can only imagine what – what you’re going through, but I think talking about it –”

He shakes his head and smiles softly at her, though his eyes remain distant. “Perhaps another time, Swan.”

Emma almost insists, but stops herself in time. She herself doesn’t like discussing her past with anyone, and she has a strong feeling that Killian is similarly guarded, and not just because he’s afraid of them arresting him.

“Oh,” says a voice from the doorway and both Emma and Killian turn to look. Another returnee, a young man with tan skin, floppy brown hair and dark eyes, is lingering by the entrance, looking between Killian and Emma. His eyes settle on Emma, in her normal clothes, and then to Killian, in his blue scrubs, and he nods. “Hi there. You must our new roommate.” His voice is accented, but his English still crisp and clear. “I’m Cyrus.” 

Killian surveys the man quickly, and then nods in return. “Killian,” he offers simply. 

Cyrus looks to Emma then, clearly questioning her presence in the room, and she abruptly feels out of place, the only girl in the guys’ club, the agent in with the returnees. “Right,” she says, rubbing her hands on her pants. “Well, Killian, I’ll leave you to get acquainted. If you need anything, just let one of the guards know – they can contact me.”

He nods, and Emma moves past Cyrus back out into the hall. She hears the pair start to talk, and she smiles a bit fondly despite herself. Even if she’s suspicious of Will, it is important for Killian, and all the other returnees too, to start talking and interacting with each other.

But, still, she can’t help her suspicion, however unfounded it may turn out to be. She pulls out her cellphone, texting a quick note to Robin Locksley that she wants to meet up and talk about one of his assigned returnees. He replies right away, saying they can meet later that day, and Emma resolves then, with Killian occupied, to finally go to her office and get that damn paperwork started.

<> 

After Swan departs, Cyrus wastes no time in welcoming Killian into the room. “It’s nice to meet you, Killian,” he says with a genuine smile, moving further inwards and collapsing on the bunk below Killian’s. “We were wondering when our fourth would show up. Isolation, I take it?”

He nods.

“I thought so. The others –” he gestures to the other bunk – “were in there too for a few days. I saw them heading up this way too on my way, I’ll introduce you to them.”

They’re there soon after; a pair of men who are … odd, to say the least. Jekyll is quiet, hardly looking Killian in the eye, and he retreats to his bunk nearly the moment he’s in the room, curling around himself and staring at the wall. His fellow, Hyde, is even less friendly – he simply stares at Killian with dark, sullen eyes during their introduction and doesn’t even mutter a greeting.

Cyrus seems to sense the awkwardness growing in the room as Hyde stares Killian down, and he pipes up to break the silence with further introductions. He tells Killian that he himself was a rare collector and an aspiring archeologist from Saudi Arabia in the late 1960s, out exploring an ancient ruin, and that Jekyll and Hyde are actually from the same year – 1886 – and were a chemist and jail warden in Edinburgh, respectively.

Killian’s not entirely sure what a chemist is, but he tenses at the mention of the Hyde being a warden. He regards the man, who has sullenly retreated to his own bed now, pulling out a rather thick book entitled _Jails and Prisons in the Modern Twenty-First Century_ from under his pillow. That only makes Killian stiffen more, and he doesn’t even notice Cyrus still talking to him until a few moments later.

“Killian?” he says, and he pulls his attention away from Hyde to meet Cyrus’ friendly eyes. “What’s your story?”

He takes a few moments, thinking over what to say, when he’s struck again, as he had been with Swan earlier, with the feeling of being back in naval academy. The boys there had all done similar introductions, their backgrounds full of long naval familial histories or other armed services; one boy had even been the youngest son of an earl. Killian had felt sorely out of place then and had lied, saying he was a son of a merchant instead of an orphan slave, and he lies again this time.

“I was a sailor,” he says. “Born in 1717.”

He hopes to leave it at that, but Cyrus is highly intrigued, both at his age and his ‘occupation’ and Killian spends the next long while telling him all about his life, both just generally and as a sailor. He leaves out anything that could reference his life as a pirate, but Swan was right – talking about his past is still strangely cathartic. He’s told Belle, and even Swan, bits and pieces to keep their interest sated for now, but they’re workers here and could turn on him any second. But talking to Cyrus is different. He’s like Killian, lost in a foreign world, and he feels slightly more at ease sharing details. It helps that Cyrus is a great listener who asks all the right questions and for the rest of the morning, Killian tells him tales of his life on the sea.

But still. Killian’s kept mostly to himself ever since he lost Liam, and arriving in this strange world has only heightened his guard. As nice as it is to talk about his past, he feels tense throughout the whole conversation and it lingers as he follows Cyrus downstairs for the midday meal about an hour and a half later. One wrong word, one slip of the tongue, and this carefully constructed ruse could all come crumbling down around him. Cyrus could tell any of the Storybrooke agents who Killian really is, and then he’d be off to that isolation cell again, or most probably, somewhere even worse.

He’s lost in his thoughts, trailing Cyrus through the lunchtime crowd, and he nearly bumps right into him as the man comes to a stop at a table. It’s deserted save for a rather pretty woman, with thin brown hair and an oval face, sitting at it. She’s stirring a cup of tea absently, glazed eyes gazing across the room to the large windows, though it looks like she isn’t really seeing anything at all.

“Hi Alice,” Cyrus greets, and the woman’s attention snaps to him instantly. “Mind if we join you?”

She smiles, widely, and all traces of absentmindedness vanish from her expression. “Of course!”

Cyrus takes the seat beside her, reflecting a smile back to her, and Killian slides into the seat opposite them, feeling a bit like an interloper with the looks the pair are giving each other. But he doesn’t get a chance to excuse himself before Cyrus, having finally tore his gaze away from Alice, starts introducing him.

“Alice, this is my new roommate Killian. Killian, Alice. We met the other day – she was in isolation like you for a while too.”

“Were you?” Alice asks, turning to Killian. “Wasn’t it terribly boring? I felt as if I was going as mad as a hatter in there.”

“Aye, it was boring,” he agrees, more than happy to say just that and leave out how depressing he found it. “I’m glad to be out.”

Alice nods earnestly, and then Cyrus starts speaking again, drawing her attention back to him. Killian’s content to sit there in silence, watching their interaction, a bit amused. It’s apparent there’s already something more than just a growing friendship between the two, and his heart clenches a bit painfully as a long lost memory resurfaces with that thought.

The closest he had ever come to anything remotely like that had been with one of the wives of one of his marks so long ago, a lovely and lonely woman who was disinterested with her marriage and her life in general. Even the simple thought of her face, beautiful blue eyes and rosy cheeks framed by dark curls, makes his heart ache; he’d only known her a few days before he had left her town, and though he’d offered her a place aboard his ship, a way to escape her clearly undesirable fate, she’d remained behind with her young son, unwilling (yet) to leave it all behind. That had been two years before he disappeared, but he’d often thought about returning to her town’s port, damn the danger that her husband poised to him after he had discovered what Killian stole from him, but he never got the chance.

Taken by the accursed white light to this strange time before a faint hope at a life, at a family, at a future, could even take root in his heart.

Killian abruptly gets to his feet, startling both Cyrus and Alice into silence. “Apologies,” he says, at their identical looks of concern. “I – I just need some air.”

He doesn’t wait for the inevitable looks of sympathy that will come his way, turning and trying very hard to walk slowly as to not appear as if he’s fleeing the table.

It’s second nature to walk towards exit doors, but he stops brusquely as he nears them, remembering that he won’t even be allowed out onto the grounds for that breath of fresh air he so desperately needs. That fuels his already darkening thoughts, and he turns on his heel, back to face the room.

He scans the hundreds of occupants until he finally spots Will Scarlet, seated alone at a table near the far wall. He’d told the man to scamper the moment he saw Swan earlier and they’d quickly agreed to meet up later that day, and now seems like the opportune moment.

And so, carefully avoiding the route that would take him back past Cyrus and Alice’s table, he moves to join Will. As he settles himself down across from him, Will greeting him with nothing more than a nod, it’s easy to fall back into their brief planning from earlier.

And though any hope for a future he dreamed of when he was still a free man is long gone, Killian starts to think, that if he and Will really can figure out a way out of here, he may finally get a chance at a new one.

<> 

_One Week Later_

A week after Killian Jones is moved into the general quarters, as cold January gives way to an even colder February, there’s still no sign of the public’s interest diminishing in the news of the returnees. It’s still constantly on the news, the channels focusing on this as if nothing else in the world is going on, and even when Emma’s not at work, it’s all anyone can talk about. She could be stopping at a coffee shop or at the grocery store or even at the gym and it’s all she hears.

But luckily, there’s stricter security around Storybrooke now and the cameras and crews are kept well away from the gates, leaving the news only the barest glimpses of the place now. There is the occasional rogue reporter who finds a way through the line of security, but it’s a rarity, thankfully, and Emma’s fight to just drive onto the lot is much reduced; the distance from the news crews leaves her and the rest of Storybrooke in a much better mood.

Well, her and the rest of the workers, that is. Due to the risk of those reckless reporters, along with long-lens cameras and news helicopters who refuse to obey the ‘no-fly zone’ imposed over Storybrooke, the returnees still aren’t allowed out for walks or any other outdoor activities. Being trapped inside, with only the same people day after day, has made all of them tired and restless, grumpy and short-tempered, and there’s been more arguments that the guards have had to step in on in the last few days than the rest of the time they’ve been there.

They also don’t know _why_ they’re being kept inside, which only fuels everyone’s frustration and has led to threads of dark suspicion flitting throughout the returnees. In an attempt to combat the growing mass hysteria and impending mutiny, Regina has finally relented on her rules. No walks during the day still, but the pond on Storybrooke’s grounds is far enough away from the gates that, with large black screens set up to block it from sight, it’ll be suitable to have a fun evening out for all the returnees.

But seeing as it is still the middle of winter, the frigid air hovering heavily above Boston as if it never wants to leave, the idea of sending out all the returnees in the cold winter evening had thrown a huge wrench into the plan. Walks during the day had been okay – a spare jacket here or there had kept the returnees warm enough on their short excursions, but Storybrooke simply isn’t equipped to give everyone brand new winter clothing. They had provided sweaters and some thicker sweatpants for warmth earlier in the week after the returnees collectively complained about the draughty barracks, but to supply the rest of winter gear Regina had to put out a note to the public asking for donations.

And donations they’d received. Hardly a day after Regina’s request was put out there, large transport trucks were lumbering through Storybrooke, stuffed full of winter jackets, mitts, scarves, hats, and boots. The returnees may not be allowed outside, but the caravan of transport trucks they saw through the windows had created a bubble excitement, with rumours of more freedom circulating faster than the speed of light.

And on the morning of the February 1st, with the announcement of the evening’s activities broadcast to the returnees over breakfast, Emma has never seen the collective group of returnees happier.

Even Killian Jones, whose brow seems permanently set in a frown, is decidedly more chipper as Emma chats with him in the cafeteria just after lunch that day. She’s ostensibly there to work on her end of week summary report (how he’s adjusting, what his progress goals are for next week, stuff like that) but with him actually in a good mood, all thoughts of completing her report have fled her mind.

She’s spent hours with him in the past few days, as he’s gotten used to being in the general population and also as he slowly starts to adjust to his new reality. He’s actually remarkably pleasant for the most part, Emma only noticing his semi-permanent frown disappearing when they’re seated together. He’ll even crack some jokes at the things he finds particularly strange and is as curious as a little boy in the things he thinks are interesting.

But it only takes a small mention of his past to make him tense and standoffish, and for the rest of that conversation, Emma feels more like she’s talking to a brick wall rather than another person. He lets some things out, yes, but he’s clearly determined to make her think he was nothing more than a Navy sailor. She pokes and prods, gently but as firm as can be, but Emma learning that he can be as stubborn as her herself when he wants to be.

It doesn’t surprise her that he’s so guarded, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating when his jaw clenches, his shoulders stiffen, and he stares at her through suddenly distant eyes. She’s thought about coming clean, telling him he can drop the act, that she already knows that he was a pirate so they can just move on from that darkness hanging over both their heads. But she’s afraid that telling him that will only make him close himself off even more, will break the fragile and growing trust between them.

And that slowly growing trust is progress as far as Emma is concerned; Commander Gold, however, sees things entirely differently.

He’s constantly sending her emails, pulling her aside after meetings, all the time demanding to know everything she’s gotten out of the pirate. She’s told him several times that pushing Killian will only harm their relationship, but Gold is not happy about that, to say the very least. He harangued her for several minutes after one of their usual department meetings, and Emma had ended up losing her temper, spitting out a sharp, “You go interrogate him yourself if you’re so desperate to know more about him! Maybe he’ll trust you more than me.”

That had not gone well – Gold, usually so calm and collected, had visibly blanched at the suggestion. That in and of itself had surprised Emma, and before she could question him about it, Gold was back to himself, sneering that if Emma wasn’t capable herself of handling Jones, he would simply assign a different agent to him.

Emma remembers the sudden flare of anger that had flooded through her at that, and she has to shake herself presently so that it doesn’t overcome her right now. Even just thinking about it makes her want to clench her hands into fists, and she consciously forces herself to focus on what’s going on around her.

Instead of working on her report, as she should be, she and Killian have been talking about the moon landing for the past twenty minutes. He was gifted a new book by Belle the other day, a book of history from around the time he disappeared until today, and he’s made up to the 1960s, the lunar missions. He didn’t believe the book when it was going into all the intricacies behind the first mission to the moon, arguing that it was all fabricated just to trick him, and Emma’s spent the last five minutes showing him videos on her cellphone of it just to show him that, _yes_ , people really did walk on the moon.

“I can’t believe it,” Killian says, leaning back from the phone as the most recent video finishes, his eyes wide in astonishment. “In the space of nearly three hundred years, your people have been to the _moon_?”

Emma grins at his expression, slipping her phone back into her pocket. “Yeah, it is pretty cool.”

“That, Swan, is an understatement.”

Emma laughs. “What about you then? What was the coolest place you ever visited?”

Killian just snorts. “I visited many places and certainly none were as ‘cool’ as the _moon_.”

She laughs again. “Okay, fair enough. But how about what place _I_ would think is the most interesting then. You’ve got to have visited some of those in your adventures.”

He regards her curiously for a moment, and his brow furrows a bit in thought. He’s silent for a few more minutes before a strange, rather eerie expression comes over his face.

“There was this island,” he says quietly, and his voice has suddenly lost all of its mirth. “I’d been there only twice, stumbled upon it the first time by accident, and I believe it was still unknown when I returned there for the second time. It was small, uninhabited, covered in jungle. It was very … bizarre.”

Emma frowns at the sudden shift in tone, and she leans closer to him. “Bizarre? What do you mean?”

He fidgets a bit in his seat, frowning himself now. He’s quiet for a few moments, thinking of his words, when a voice from behind them speaks before he has the chance.

“Hey guys!”

She turns, and spots Belle, standing a few feet away. Emma, who usually is always happy to see her, has never wanted her to disappear more. “Oh. Hey Belle.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says with slightly raised eyebrows, clearly sensing Emma’s reaction and Emma forces herself to smile kindly back at her. Belle nods once in recognition, and then turns to Killian. “We’ve got our session. Remember?”

“Right,” Killian says, and he flips shut the open history book next to him. He shifts in his seat again, shaking off whatever darkness the mention of that island had created, and continues, in a much lighter tone, “Thanks for showing me those … videos, did you call them, Swan?”

Emma nods. “Yeah, videos. I’m glad you liked them.” Killian gets to his feet then, and Emma rises with him. She’s not forgotten his comment about this strange island, and though it is probably nothing, just another adventure in his repertoire, something about it settles uneasily on her mind. “I’ll – I’ll see you tonight, alright? At the pond. Maybe you can tell me more about that island.”

A quick flicker of guilt crosses Killian’s face then, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, so quickly Emma would’ve missed it if she blinked.

“Of course, Swan,” he says, and his voice is cheery and smooth. “See you then.”

He smiles at her as he turns to leave with Belle, but Emma’s too thrown to smile back. She hadn’t expected an outright lie from him, especially not when answering such a simple question. He’s good at mincing his words usually, blending in enough of the truth to keep her lie detector at bay, but it’s as if he didn’t even try this time.

Emma’s frown deepens as she watches him stride off with Belle, and out of habit, her eyes move from his back to scan the rest of the room for Will Scarlet.

The few times she’s seen Killian and Will together, including earlier this morning when she was here checking on another returnee, she gets that same uneasy feeling in her stomach, a dread of some approaching trouble she can’t place. They’re more careful now, though – Emma knows she’d taken Killian by surprise that morning when she’d shown up in the cafeteria, as he and Will usually have nothing to do with each other when she’s around.

That, of course, only makes her more suspicious, but there’s nothing she can really do about it. Her meeting with Robin Locksley about Will the other day had been, unfortunately, unfruitful. He knew as little as Belle, though had managed to track down a birth notice from 1840 for a William Joseph Scarlet. He’d looked back in some other records too – Will had at least offered up that he was an apprentice to a locksmith, narrowing the search a bit – but still came up blank. It’s not totally surprising: records back then were spotty as hell as it was, and the preservation of the one particular record you want is more often than not just a hopeful wish.

But still. Though Robin doesn’t seem bothered by it, taking in the lack of information in stride, it irks Emma. She knows in her gut that Will Scarlet is lying, but with no proof to back it up, there is nothing she can do.

And when she finishes scanning the cafeteria presently, seeing Will Scarlet nowhere in sight, she just sighs. For now, the uneasy feeling will have to remain only that – a feeling.

<> 

When evening finally arrives that day, the bubble of excitement hanging over Storybrooke explodes into full-on glee. There’s too many returnees to have them all outside at once, so one of the agents scheduled them all into five hour-long excursions, but even how they’re all being split up can’t quell the excitement.

Emma was assigned to be a supervisor for the event, which basically means she’s on watch-dog duty, standing there, watching the returnees, and absolutely freezing. Though its hard to complain when she sees the first group of returnees streaming outside once the sun’s dipped below the horizon, their happiness spreading out to cover the entire campus as they rush towards the curtained-off area.

And it is really sweet, in a strangely sad way, to watch the returnees enjoy themselves. All these people from history bundled up in mismatched jackets, mitts, and scarves, laughing and smiling, a lot of them for the first time in days.

But Emma can’t deny that it’s also incredibly eerie. A lakeshore is where they’d all first returned to this time, and to see them again crowded around a wintery shore (with floodlights set up again to light the night, as it had been that first time) sends goosebumps down Emma’s spine. Some of the returnees themselves have clearly noticed this similarity, and sit around the roaring fire pits with uncomfortable expressions written on their faces and are all too happy to flee back inside once their hour is up.

But overall, as the night goes on, it’s clear it’s a roaring success. The returnees organize a game of snow-soccer against the some of the braver agents (the returnees win nearly every game by a landslide); others huddle around the fires, roasting marshmallows and swapping ghost stories; and still others indulge in their childish side, making snow angels and having snow ball fights. Regina even reached out to an athletic company, who provided a pair of ice skates for each returnee, and its terribly amusing watching those who know how to skate teach the ones who don’t.

By the time the last hour rolls around, Emma’s so cold she can barely feel her fingers, even through her thick gloves, and she stopped being able to feel her toes about three hours ago. She’s bouncing back and forth on her heels, trying to coax some warmth into her frozen legs, when Anna Arendelle bounds up to her, a wide smile on her face, cheeks rosy with exertion.

“Hey Emma! How’s it going?” She’s cheery and more joyful than Emma’s ever heard her, and it creates a warm smile across her face. She’s been so busy lately – they both have – but Emma’s missed seeing Anna around, and it warms her heart at how happy Anna is lately, how much of a change has come over her – all because of her sister’s return.

 “Anna! It’s good. How are you? You look like you’ve had some fun tonight.”

Anna laughs, and at the carefree sound, Emma thinks that, even though life is crazy stressful now and confusing and, frankly, sometimes downright scary when she thinks about _how_ this is all possible, no matter what did happen to all the returnees, seeing people like Anna and Elsa, reunited and joyous and happy, makes all the hard work worth it.

“I was playing in the soccer game,” Anna explains, and she makes a face. “We got crushed again.”

Emma laughs. “Maybe you’ll get them this time, with this batch of returnees. Let me know how it goes, yeah?”

Anna tilts her head, peering at Emma with a curious expression. “You can come play too, you know.”

“Oh no, I’m on duty.”

Anna sighs, and she shakes her head. “Emma. Half the people _playing_ are ‘on duty’. No one will notice if you slip away for a moment. Go on, go play or find something else to do. You look like you need to warm up a bit anyways.”

Emma shakes her head, though the idea of moving, of getting warm, is tempting to say the very least. “Don’t worry about me, Anna. I’ll be okay. I’ve got to watch the returnees, make sure they’re all okay too.”

Anna sighs again. “Oh Emma. You work too hard; you need a break. Go on, enjoy yourself. I’ll cover for you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Emma still hesitates. “But what about you? Don’t you want to spend time with Elsa?”

“Oh, she’s back inside now, she was in the last group.” Anna puts her hands on Emma’s shoulders then, spinning her around. “Now, no more excuses. Go have fun.”

Emma sighs, with a bit of a laugh mixed in, but acquiesces. She strolls through the crowd, slowly at first as the feeling creeps back into her cold body, and despite herself, she finds herself looking through the crowd for Killian Jones. She’d checked the schedule earlier, and knows he was scheduled in this last group allowed out at 9 o’clock. But as she continues to scan the area, she frowns. She can’t spot him anywhere, and while it really isn’t that concerning – some of the returnees complained of the cold and went back in early – she somehow doubts Killian would have given up that easily.  

Who she does see, however, is Robin Locksley, watching the most recent round of snowball fights with an amused expression on his face. She approaches him, calling out his name as she nears. “Robin!”

He turns, and smiles when he sees her. “Hey, Emma. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she answers, automatically. “Cold, but good. I’m looking for Killian Jones – you haven’t seen him, have you?”

To her surprise, Robin nods. “I did, actually. He was with Will Scarlet; they were chatting by the fire pits earlier.”

Emma’s stomach drops at the mention of Killian’s company, and she looks sharply over to the fire pits – but nowhere among the crowd of huddled returnees does she spot either of the men. That uncomfortable feeling Emma’s had for the last week returns with a vengeance then, slamming heavily into her gut. Call it instinct, call it leftover remnants of her days as a bail bondsperson, but she knows automatically something isn’t right.

“Robin,” Emma says, seriously, and she looks back to him, who’s still distracted by the snowball fights. “We need to find them.”

He finally turns his full attention to her, and he frowns. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

Emma shakes her head. “It’s too long to explain right now, but I’ve had a bad feeling for a week about those two. Just – just help me look okay?”

He looks suspicious and concerned, but nods nonetheless. “Okay. Want me to let some of the others know too?”

She pauses for only a brief second. “No, don’t. No need to alarm anyone if I’m wrong.”

 _No need to let word get back to Gold that Killian Jones may have given me the slip_.

She and Robin agree to split up and look, and Emma heads off, towards the fire pits while Robin drifts back towards the makeshift soccer pitch.

Once Emma reaches them, she can see for certain now that Killian and Will aren’t here, hidden behind a cluster of other returnees or anything like that. She frowns, and casts her gaze around for any clues as to where they could’ve gone, when she spots something that makes her blood freeze in her veins.

Two sets of footprints, clear against the undisturbed snow off to the left of the fire pits, that continue on for a while before disappearing into the dark night beyond.

It could be nothing, just a set of returnees who wandered off by accident, but Emma knows deep down it’s not just that. With a quick glance behind her to see if she can spot Robin (she can’t), Emma follows the footsteps without a second thought. They lead towards a set of the large black screens, the area abandoned by the guards for the soccer game or another activity, no doubt, and disappear through a break between two of the screens.

Her heart is now hammering in her chest – _these idiots, please tell me they’re not stupid enough to try to escape from a highly secured government campus_ – as she slips between the screens to follow the footprints.

The sounds of the skating party fade behind her as she moves further and further away in pursuit of the footprints, closer and closer to Storybrooke’s perimeter gates. She’s just about to round one of the buildings closest to the large fences when she hears conversation ahead.

She skids to a stop, pressing herself against the cold bricks of the building as she leans forward, straining to catch the actual words of the conversation.

“I thought you said we were just going to scout things out, not actually _go_ tonight,” says an irritated voice, one Emma recognizes as Will Scarlet’s, and her stomach tightens with dread. “I’d have worn my warmer hat if I knew you mad enough to want to slip away in the middle of the bloody night.”

She hears a bark of laughter – Killian’s. “Come on, mate. This is our chance; they’re all distracted back there, they won’t notice we’re gone for hours still. Now we just need to figure out how to get through here … this is the narrowest fence I’ve ever seen.”

Will mutters something dark back in return, but Emma’s not listening anymore. Her blood is starting to boil in rage – _these absolute morons_ – and ignoring all attempts at stealth now, she surges out from behind the building.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?”

Will and Killian, standing with their backs to her just in front of the fence a few metres away, both jump nearly a foot in surprise, and they whirl around in unison. Will looks automatically guilty, but Killian simply stares back at Emma with a defiant set to his jaw.

He shifts his weight, staring her down, and he says, his voice as cold as the night around them, “What are you doing here, Swan?”

All the progress they’d made in the last week disappears with those words – there’s no sign of the man who joked about Shakespeare and children’s books, who stared in wonder at videos about the moon, who laughed at electric lights. He’s back to the cold man she’d first met, the pirate with nothing but distrust and darkness in his heart.

Emma _hates_ it.

But she swallows down the feeling, forcing herself to focus on what’s going on right now, on controlling the rage nearly seeping out of her very pores. “I was following you,” she retorts simply. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”

“Really?” Killian says, lightly, and he makes a big show of looking around as if he hadn’t known _exactly_ what he was doing. “Our mistake.”

At that, Emma’s anger nearly overwhelms her. “Don’t play that card with me,” she hisses. “I’m not stupid, Killian. You were trying to leave. To escape.”

Neither answers, but both their expressions settle more into what they’d been before: Will even guiltier, and Killian more defiant. It all but confirms her thoughts, the few words she’d just overheard, her bad feeling all week, and Emma doesn’t think she’s ever been angrier in her life.

There’s a swirl of betrayal (and hurt, if she’s being honest) mixed in with that anger too, shooting hotly through her blood and flooding her senses. It creates a strange tightness in her chest that Killian is so _distrustful_ of her, of Storybrooke, that he’d rather make a foolhardy attempt at escape than allow them – _her_ – to help him.

She shakes her head, and takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself down but it fails spectacularly as she levels a dark glare upon them. Killian and Will almost edge a bit backwards at the ferocious look in her eye, but Emma lunges, grabbing both of them by their arms so they don’t do anything stupid, like make a run for the gates.

“You guys are idiots,” she says, tugging them closer to her and shoving them so they turn around. “Total _idiots_.”

Will snorts, shuffling his feet a bit, looking very much like he agrees with Emma’s assessment. Killian can see it too, and he shoots him a dark look before looking back to Emma. He tries to twist from her grip, but Emma only tightens it.

He glares at her, still trying to tug free, and there’s a silent war going on behind his eyes. Emma can read it easily – he’s wondering whether or not he can still make it out of the fence without her tackling him firstly.

“Don’t even think about it,” she says harshly, and she pushes him ahead of her slightly, even further away from the gate.

He stops fighting then, glaring at her. He does chance a glance behind him a few moments later, to the darkness beyond Storybrooke’s gates, and a torn sadness, a bitterness at not being able to achieve his goal, crosses his across his face before he turns back to look at her, with angry eyes.

“I fail to see how trying to escape certain imprisonment is idiotic.”

Emma wants to scream. “You’re _not_ going to be imprisoned,” she snaps. “I’ve been trying this whole time to _stop_ that from happening, but no! Let’s throw that all into jeopardy! Let’s take things into our own hands, and screw everything and everybody else!”

Killian just stares at her with an unreadable expression, though a small flicker of surprise appears in his eyes at her words, at _I’ve been trying this whole time to stop that_. But it’s gone as soon as it came, and he just stares, blue eyes nearly black in rage, at her. “So now what, Swan?” he says, voice as dark as she’s ever heard. “Off to the brig with us?”

Emma breathes out hardly, and takes another calming breath. She has no idea what’s going to happen, but telling that to Killian and Will, still out here in the cold, is certainly not an option.

“We’ll discuss it in my office,” she says, shortly. “Come on.”

But before Emma can even start to march them back towards the rest of the returnees, there’s a sudden movement from the other side of the fence, a loud rustling and crunching of snow, and then several bright flashes are illuminating the dark night.

Both Killian and Will flinch in alarm, and Emma’s grip, which had been looser on Will than Killian to begin with, slips from Will’s arm as he pulls away from her.

Emma doesn’t even care – for a wild moment, her first thought is that it’s the damned white light that seems to have started this whole mess. But as she blinks rapidly, her eyes re-focusing ahead, her heart drops right through the floor of her stomach.

This is a thousand times worse than that white light.

Her grip tightens on Killian, who’s swearing under his breath and rubbing at his eyes with his free arm. Will is gone, having scampered back towards the rest of the group if the sound of crunching snow behind her is any indication. But Emma still doesn’t give a damn because just beyond the fence, silhouetted against the black night, scrambling closer to the gates even as Emma watches, cameras out and microphones pointed their way, are dozens of television reporters.


	7. chapter vii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! If you follow me on tumblr, you may know that I said this wouldn't be ready until middle of December, but now that I've finished my course (YES!) I have so much more free time, it's incredible, and so here this chapter is! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for your continued support, and especially thanks to those who nominated this story for the CS fic awards! Even just to be nominated is so exciting, and I'm so glad you're all enjoying the story!

“Over here!”

“Hey! _Hey_! Can I get a comment?”

“What year are you from?”

“Did you say _imprisoned_? What’s really going on in there?”

“Look right at the camera!”

The reporters crowd right up to the gates, shoving their recorders and microphones through the bars, stretching them out towards Emma and Killian. The camera flashes are still going off, blurring her vision and making her see double, but as she blinks several times, she can see that it’s not only still photography that they’re using. There are several video cameras too, hoisted high above the crowd by reporters on their tip-toes, the white recording light casting an eerie glow over the dark winter night in the moments when the camera flashes cease.

And that’s when she finally snaps back into what’s going on.

_Oh shit_.

Killian is still scrubbing at his eyes, muttering darkly, but Emma doesn’t give him a chance to really adjust to the difference in light before she’s twisting him behind her, shoving him forward and back towards the skating area.

“Move. We need to get back.”

He glares at her as he pulls his hand from his eyes, but remains silent as Emma marches them off. He does turn to look back at the gates over his shoulder, to where the reporters are still hollering, their cameras still flashing. At the sight of his gaze, their shouts increase in volume, even more flashes going off and the light seems to even reflect off the untouched white snow, illuminating the dark night tenfold.

“Who are those people?” he demands as he turns to face forward again, nearly stumbling on the slick snow as Emma pushes relentlessly on. “And what is that white light?”

She ignores him, just tightening her grip on his arm and continuing their march forwards. She’s sure he’ll be left with finger-shaped bruises, even through his winter jacket, but she doesn’t let up, not willing to trust he won’t just run off and create an even bigger disaster. They’re nearly at the building she’d peered around only minutes ago, the building that will act as their shield from the world, and that’s all Emma can focus on at this point.

_Get behind the building, get Killian out of sight, don’t let the reporters get more than they’ve got already._

When it becomes clear to Killian that Emma isn’t going to answer him, he sighs and pulls in irritation at her grip, even dragging his heels a bit in an attempt to get her to stop. That, of course, does nothing but make Emma walk faster, hauling him along with an even tighter grip.

He sighs again, and says, with frustration straining his tone, “Swan, I know you’re angry, but please tell me what is going on. Who are those people? What are they doing?”

Still Emma doesn’t answer, still focused on reaching the building. When they do moments later and are sufficiently hidden around the corner from the reporters, she finally skids to a stop, turning to face him.

Killian, who hadn’t been expecting her to stop so suddenly, nearly runs right into her and its an awkward dance for a few moments as they both try to get their own personal space back, but with Emma’s grip still tight on his arm, they end up standing closer than one would in a normal conversation anyways.

He jerks his head back around the corner, to where the reporters’ hollers have faded into a low rumble now with the distance between them, and says, quite frostily, “Must I ask you again what is going on, Swan?”

Emma sighs, and bestows a dark glare on him, knowing its not his fault that the reporters managed to reach the gates – security is going to get a _walloping_ from Regina because of this – but Emma’s also perfectly happy to blame him for it all as he never should have been over there in the first place.

“They’re journalists, reporters. You know – the news? Newspapers? Did you have them in your time?”

He frowns but nods nevertheless. “Yes, we did. Though, different than yours,” he continues, with cool sarcasm dripping from his voice like sharp icicles. “As in my day there was no associated flashes of white light with the written word.”

Her eyes snap to him, and a bit of her anger deflates out of her as she takes in his expression. Whatever darkness had dug its claws into him back at the gates, that had twisted and marred his handsome features into cold sneers and hard glares, is gone now. He looks much more like the Killian she’s come to know this past week than the cold pirate, and while there’s still a hard edge to his jaw and his eyes are dark, Emma can see the faint fear and uncertainty lingering in him that he can’t quite mask. 

Of _course_ he wants to know what caused that white light.

Emma takes a deep breath and, making an enormous effort to make her voice softer, says, “Those are called cameras. They take your picture – um, a portrait, I guess. Like a really accurate portrait that’s all done through light. That’s all that was: a camera flash.” She pauses, and then continues, her voice a hesitant venture, “Was – was it like what you saw? Before you were … taken?”

He frowns again. “No. Similar, but not exactly the same. The other light was … different.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Emma frowns in turn as goosebumps – and not from the cold – rise on her neck at the odd edge to his words.

“What do you mean?’”

Killian just shrugs, as if unbothered, but Emma senses discomfort in the gesture; there’s clearly still much to that white light that neither he or Emma understand. “I don’t know how to explain it. It was just … different.”

She opens her mouth to ask more questions, but there’s a swell of sudden noise from behind them – several loud voices projected through megaphones, ordering everyone to ‘step away from the gates!’ – that has her clamping her mouth shut again.

Right, the reporters.

At least it seems that security’s finally managed to get their act together, and for now, any more questions about the mysterious white light will have to wait.  

“Come on, let’s go to my office. It’s freezing out here.” She starts to turn and tug him after her, but he digs in his heels again, stubbornly refusing to budge.

“Wait, Swan.”

She looks back to him, an eyebrow raised in annoyance. He’s frowning again, though this time there’s a different edge to it, and its enough to draw her interest that it has Emma pausing.

“What is it?”

“Back there,” he says slowly, and now he looks to her with such an intense gaze that she feels distinctly like he’s trying to stare right into the depths of her soul, as if an answer he's searching for is somehow hidden there. “You said that you’ve been trying to stop me from being imprisoned this whole time … what did you mean by that?”

She stiffens, and though her mind is already swirling to come up with an excuse, there’s nothing for it. There’s no way to get around telling him that all his playacting of being nothing more than a Navy sailor was all for naught, that she’s known who he really is for weeks. And even besides that, she’s so damn tired of the charade, of the deception. Perhaps if he had known all along that they know who he is and he still wasn’t going to be arrested, he wouldn’t have even attempted to escape in the first place and all this could’ve been avoided.

“I think,” she says evenly, “that you know why there was talk of you being imprisoned.”

He stares at her for a few more seconds, before chuckling darkly once, shaking his head and looking past her with a tight set to his jaw, a hardness in his eyes as he focuses on the frost-coated brick building behind her. “Aye, I suppose I do. It was foolish of me to think I could pass as anything other than what I am.”

Emma doesn’t reply, not sure what to say to that, not with the dark bite of bitterness to his words, and as she takes him in, she realizes he’s right. She’s only seen him in his original leather or the common blue scrubs, but tonight he’s wearing some of the donated clothing that arrived a few days ago. A black winter jacket covers what appears to be a thick grey sweater, pulled up high around his neck, and he’s wearing a pair of thick, dark blue jeans tucked into warm winter boots. And even though the tips of his ears and nose are bright cherry red from the cold, the way he’s standing, the way he holds himself … there’s no way anyone could think of him as anything else but a pirate.

He looks back to her then, tilting his head in question and regards her through guarded eyes. “And so you knew all this time? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was waiting for you to tell me in your own time,” she replies honestly. “I thought you deserved the chance to tell me when you wanted to.”

Killian is quiet again, just regarding her, and though his expression remains carefully neutral, Emma can see many questions bubbling under the surface.

“So you know I’m a pirate,” he says finally, and its almost as if a weight lifts from his shoulders as he says the word – he stands straighter and levels an even more intense gaze at her. “And yet you were still trying to stop me from being imprisoned.”

It’s not asked as a question but Emma hears it as what he’s what he’s really trying to ask – _why_. Why does she care?

And hell, why does she?

Emma doesn’t even have the answer to that herself. Why _did_ she stand up for him in that first meeting with Regina and Gold? Yeah, there’s the fact that she didn’t want to play a part in arresting a man on hearsay, sure, but … she thinks back to when she’d been only seventeen, just free from jail with nothing but a stolen car and a newborn baby. She was alone against an uncertain and cruel world – just like Killian. Against a world where you’re judged for nothing but your past actions.

And if Emma hadn’t had those few people who believed in her enough to give her a chance, she has no idea where she’d be now. Without that kind social worker who helped her get her and Henry’s first measly apartment, without her first boss Leroy who gave a young juvenile delinquent a shot at being a bail bondsperson, and hell, without even Regina who gave her the opportunity to work at Storybrooke … Emma would be an entirely different person.

And so maybe it’s just because she felt an urge to be that person for Killian, to be the one person in his new world who cared enough to give him a chance, that she stood up for him and that she still cares about what happens to him.

(Or maybe it’s because she's starting to realize that when she looks at him, she sees a bit of herself, a piece of her own lost soul reflected back to her.)

But she doesn’t say any of that. Instead, she straightens her back and looks him squarely in the eyes. “We’ve all got a past, Killian, and even though yours may be dark, that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a future too. And I know you just tried to escape and so you may not think so right now, but I still believe that. You deserve to have a future here, in this world, in this place and time. That even though your past is gone, your future isn’t.”

Killian just stares at her, his blue eyes wide in something akin to disbelief. “You are a mystery, Swan,” he manages finally, and though he looks very much like he wants to say something more, a loud voice from behind them interrupts him before he can.

“Agent Swan!”

Emma turns to look; running up towards them, slipping half the time on the ice, is Kristoff Reinsdyr, one of Storybrooke’s guards.

“Agent Swan!” he calls again, waving frantically. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” He skids to a stop, panting from exertion, and beckons them towards him. “Sergeant Mills sent me to find you. She wants to speak with you both in her office. Come on, follow me.”

He turns on his heel again, heading off without another word and Emma, through she grimaces, moves to follow him and pulls Killian along with her.

She glances at him as they’re escorted back towards the skating party. He still looks a bit taken aback, his brow furrowed in thought, and she thinks he’s still sufficiently distracted by what she said, but a few moments later he’s leaning in close to her, all business again as he asks, “Who is Sergeant Mills?”

“My boss,” she replies, and she can’t help but clench her jaw at the thought of how angry Regina is going to be. “She’s in charge of Storybrooke.” She adds a silent _for now_ – maybe Gold will get his wish to be in charge after all because of her and Killian.

Killian notices her expression, and he frowns. “What is it?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just be thankful its her we’re off to see, and not the commander. At least Regina can be reasoned with, though we’re both still absolutely screwed.”

He doesn’t reply, brow furrowing even further at her words, and the walk back is silent after that, save for their crunching footsteps on snow. The skating party is wrapping up at this point, with the last of the returnees being herded back inside as Kristoff, Emma, and Killian duck back around one of the large black screens, re-entering the area. The mood is still happy and light, full of laughter and cheer, and Emma grimaces again; that is all going to fade quickly when everyone learns what’s happened. 

Kristoff leads them past the straggling returnees, taking them right into the main office building and escorting them all the way up to Regina’s office on the third floor. Emma gets an uncomfortable _whoosh_ in her stomach as Kristoff knocks on the door, feeling suddenly like she’s back in school and about to see the principal for bad behaviour.

The door swings open immediately, and Emma’s prediction of Regina’s anger is entirely accurate. She’s angriest Emma’s ever seen her, with rage boiling in her eyes, her lips pursed so thin Emma can’t even see the red of her trademark lipstick.

“Get in here.”

The door is shut firmly behind them the moment they’re in, right in Kristoff's face, and Regina brushes past Killian and Emma to take a seat behind her ornate desk without even sparing them a glance.

“Sit down.”

Emma does so, finally releasing her grip on Killian’s arm and sinking into one of the white chairs opposite the desk, and while Killian eyes the chair – a sleek modern contraption that reeks of Ikea-type style – with distaste, he too sits, settling down as if it were a throne. While Emma’s just bracing herself for the tirade to begin, Killian’s put on a face of carefree confidence, as if any consequence he’s about to be dealt with could matter less to him and he stares back at Regina with a vaguely amused smirk.

Regina is quiet for a few moments, appraising Killian. Whatever she finds there obviously doesn’t impress her, as she says, with a curl of distaste to her lip, “So you’re the one who’s caused all this trouble.”

But instead of being offended, Killian’s smirk just widens. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

The cheek does nothing to quell Regina’s anger, and her look turns livid. “This is no laughing matter,” she snaps. “Do you have any idea how serious what you’ve done is? It is only luck that Agent Swan stopped you in time. What on earth were you thinking?”

When Killian just stares back at her, clearly happy to let her wallow forever in want of an answer, Emma clears her throat. “Regina –”

“I will deal with you in a minute, Agent Swan,” she says shortly, without taking her eyes off Killian. “For now, I advise you to keep quiet.”

Though that’s the last thing Emma wants to do, the last sentence is more threat than warning, and since she knows she’s already on very thin ice at this point, she shuts her mouth. But still – Emma’s never been very good at doing what she’s told (dozens of past foster parents can attest to that) and she has to curl her hands into fists in her lap and clamp her jaw tight to keep herself from speaking out again as Regina starts talking again.

“I asked you a question, Mr. Jones. What were you _thinking_?”

He bristles. “First of all,” he says, and now his voice is as cold as the night outside. “I know you are perfectly aware of who I am, Sergeant, so let’s not play the fool – my title is not  _mister_. Secondly, my reasons are my own and as I didn’t succeed with them, I hardly see the point in sharing them with you. And thirdly –” here his eyes darken dangerously, and Emma can tell that whatever this third point is, this is the one that has really turned his voice cold – “whatever consequences you are planning on giving to Swan for this evening’s events, I would advise you to re-think them. She was only doing her job, and as she did manage to stop Scarlet and I, I’d say she did a bloody magnificent job at it.”

Emma blinks, not sure she’s heard him correctly, and even Regina looks a bit surprised. She looks between them, eyebrows coming together in question: Killian’s still staring back at her, coldly defiant, and Emma’s sure she just looks as bewildered as she feels.

Where had _that_ come from?

“How noble,” Regina says finally, sounding like she thinks its anything but. “But, whatever consequences await Agent Swan are not your concern. We are here to talk about _you_. Not only did you jeopardize your own safety by trying to escape, had you succeeded in that misadvised and downright _moronic_ idea and walked right into that rattlesnake nest of reporters, you could’ve compromised _everything_ that Storybrooke has been trying to do. As it stands even now, with just the reporters getting images of you, you’ve put us in an unimaginable situation.”

Killian stiffens in his seat, and with the gaze he levels her with now she might as well be enemy pirate captain out at sea who dared to wrong him.

“Unimaginable situation, did you say?” he sneers, and  he raises his voice, getting louder and louder with each subsequent word. “Of course - what was I thinking, believing that perhaps _I_ was the one undergoing an ‘unimaginable situation?’ Clearly your organization is the one most wronged by all that has occurred; my most sincere apologies that my being thrown _centuries_ into the future has created such trouble for you!”

His raised voice lingers in the air as uneasy silence descends like a fog around the room. He’s still breathing heavily, glaring at Regina with daggers in his eyes, but to her credit, Regina looks a bit ashamed, and she takes a deep breath before she speaks again.

“That was … impolite. I apologize. But while my choice of words was certainly poor –” Killian snorts, and Regina’s eyes darken angrily – “and of course we recognize that what has occurred to you is traumatic, that doesn’t give you an excuse to try to leave Storybrooke grounds without authorization. As such, there are to be consequences.” 

Regina gets to her feet then, and strides back over to the door. She swings it open, revealing two new guards, ones Emma doesn’t recognize immediately on sight. “These guards will escort you back to the isolation rooms,” she explains, as the pair step into the room. “You will remain there until the foreseeable future.”

Killian just raises an eyebrow, and doesn’t move an inch. “And I assume you will be the one determining how long that future is?”

Though Regina is looking very much like she now wants to lock him up forever and never have to deal with him again, she replies, through gritted teeth, “When you are ready to re-join the common population, then you, of course, will do so. But for now, you have clearly shown you are not ready to be amongst the other returnees. Guards, if you please.”

Like the last time guards attempted to grab Killian’s arms to escort him anywhere, he wrenches free of them and shoots them dark glares that have them stepping back automatically. He gets to his feet of his own accord, but before they can usher him from the room, he turns to look at Emma.

Like earlier before Kristoff had interrupted them, Killian looks like he wants to say something. But whatever it is, Emma will never know, as he apparently changes his mind at the last minute, and just nods at her instead. She almost thinks the edges of his mouth curl up into a faint smile too, and as he moves past her to reach the door, she feels the light touch of his hand upon her shoulder, the ghost of a brush so subtle she’s not sure if she imagines it or not, and then he and the guards are gone, the door swinging shut behind them.

And though she’s a bit thrown by the gesture – and his unexpected defence of her to Regina earlier – when she turns back to face Regina, Emma only takes a moment to wonder at him before her mind is switching gears, now just focused on saving her ass and her job.

“Regina, I am so sorry about tonight, I swear I didn’t know what they were going to do, if I had –”

But Regina just raises a hand in response. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now, anyways; I have too much to do.” She pauses for a moment, considering. She looks less angry now that Killian is gone from the room but its replacement, a tired, quiet disappointment, is somehow worse. “I think its best if you just go home, Agent Swan.”

And Emma tries not to take it as a bad sign, that she’s not even worth the time for a lecture. “Oh – okay. Sure.”

Emma gets to her feet, and she’s just reached the door when Regina’s voice rings out again.

“And Agent Swan? It will be nothing but madness here the next couple of days, and your presence will now only complicate it. As such, until further notice, you are to remain off the premises. When you are welcome back in Storybrooke, you will be informed.”

Emma’s heart sinks and her grip tightens on the doorknob. She opens her mouth to reply, but her throat is dry and no words come out. Regina’s already turned away too, back to behind her desk, and Emma knows there’s nothing she could say to change her boss’s mind.

The walk to her car is a lot colder after that.

<> 

For the next three days, Emma doesn’t hear a word from Storybrooke.

Well, in truth, she hears nothing but news _about_ them, but not a word about whether or not she’ll be welcome back anytime soon. And though she spends those days trying to keep herself busy, to keep her mind on anything but Storybrooke, its hard not to dwell it, not when the news coverage of the first actual sighting of a returnee is all anyone can talk about. The coverage of the returnees had consumed every medium of media for weeks, but in the days that follow the events down near Storybrooke’s gates, the coverage now makes those earlier days look like nothing more than a mere mention in a community newsletter.

And Emma knows she should try to be thankful that Regina didn’t just fire her on the spot, that her punishment is still ‘stay away until further notice’. But that could change at any moment; there could be a call one day that just says ‘don’t _ever_ come back’ and then what will she do?

So no matter how much she cleans the apartment and does the dishes and folds and re-folds the laundry, she can’t stop thinking about it. No matter how you look at it, no matter that Emma actually managed to stop Killian and Will before they walked right into the thicket of reporters, the events of that night don’t paint her in a good light at all.

Of course it’s Killian Jones, the returnee she was assigned to specifically because the commander was concerned about his behaviour, that tried to escape. Of course he’s the instigator of the idea, dragging another returnee into it. Of course she had to be caught on camera stopping him and Will, with her sharp comments about ‘imprisonment’ heard as if she’d shouted into a megaphone.

It makes her stomach flip anxiously even just to think about it.

And, of course, her own fate isn’t the only thing on her mind either. Every time she thinks about the night in question, she starts thinking about Killian too. She knows that he’s still in isolation – Robin had sent her a text to let her know Will’s fate too (isolation as well after they managed to track him down, hiding in his bunk as if he’d done nothing wrong) and she’d just had to ask about Killian.

That he’s not in jail at least calms her mind a bit, but that could change at any moment too. She has no idea if Regina is still in charge of Storybrooke, or if Gold has managed to finally claw his way into power, and she figures that if he does … well, Killian will never see the outside of Storybrooke and Emma will never see the inside of it again.

Though, seeing as she still hasn’t received that ‘you’re fired’ phone call, perhaps there is still a sliver of luck on her side and Gold isn’t in charge yet.

Hopefully.

As the morning of the fourth day dawns, the ringing of Emma’s cellphone startles her out of a night of restless sleep. She fumbles the phone into her hands, so flustered by the unexpected call and the thought _this is it, you’re fired_ that she nearly drops it a few times before she manages to pull it to her ear. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Emma,” says Graham on the other end, and Emma’s instantly sitting upright, all remaining traces of sleep gone in an instant. “Sorry if I woke you up. I was just calling to let you know Regina says you’re to come back into work today.”

Emma can hardly believe it, and she swings her legs out from under the covers, on her feet and searching for clothes before she even replies. “Really? That’s great! I’ve just got to get Henry to school, and then I’ll be right there –”

“Oh, no,” Graham interrupts, and his voice stops her in her tracks. He is never anything but pleasant with her, but today his voice is distant, a distinctly strained edge to it, and it makes her pause, hand still outstretched for her shirt. “Don’t come in yourself. Regina doesn’t want you driving – says that yellow car of yours is too conspicuous. We’re sending a car to come get you. Be ready at nine.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks –” Emma starts, but the call’s already over before she can get the words out. As the silence extends against her ear, she frowns, and she stares down at her phone’s blank screen. Her momentary elation at getting to return to work vanishes, her heart sinking: Graham isn’t usually so short with her. And, as she reasons, pulling on her clothes in a much slower pace now, he’s probably mad at her … and he’s probably not the only one.

After that, the morning routine of getting Henry off to school seems to drag on. Luckily, he doesn’t notice her mood and is as cheerful as ever, chattering about his recent favourite story to read in his book – a tale about pirates now, because _of course._

That does manage to cheer Emma a bit – at least Henry’s still happy, still finds this all _the coolest thing ever_. His effervescent positivity used to take her by surprise, and she often wonders where the hell he got it, because it certainly wasn’t from her or his father. She knows very little about Neal’s family, but knows enough to know they weren’t happy people, and she’s deduced it must be from someone on her side. Not whoever her parents were – abandoning a newborn baby in the woods in October doesn’t scream ‘optimistic outlook on life’ to her – but perhaps there’d once been someone good and kind in her bloodline, whose goodness and optimism has made its way into Henry.

Even when Emma sat him down to tell him about his mother’s newfound infamy a few days ago, he’d barely blinked. All he’d asked was if it had been the pirate who tried to escape, and when she confirmed it (and told him to keep that part quiet) he’d just said something along the lines of ‘what did you expect, mom, you can’t keep a pirate away from his pirate ship.’

When Henry’s finally bundled off to school and Emma’s back to her apartment, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. The car will be here in thirty minutes, and that’s no time to really settle into any of the many chores she’s already completed several times these past few days.

She perches on the arm of the couch to wait and ends up staring at the black screen of the TV. Though she’s tried to avoid the news for the most part, from the bits she has seen, she’s realized pretty quickly that she and Killian are the stars of the reports. Will’s face had been in shadows just by the way he’d been standing and he’d bolted off quickly that most of the later camera flashes hadn’t really captured him. As such, Emma and Killian have both been immortalized in the media as the representations of the two sides of the story: the controlling government agency and the lost time travellers.

And now, staring at the black screen, Emma feels like it’s taunting her, begging her to turn it on and see the mayhem she’s a part of now. And, goddamn it, she can’t help it – she wants to know what hell she’s about to walk into.

She only has to flip a few channels to find the news. The anchor is just turning to look at the camera, having apparently finished the previous story, and he says, “As we mentioned at the top of the hour, today we have two very special guests joining us in our discussion around these so called ‘returned peoples’. Firstly, her blog, _Words of the Wicked Witch_ , was the first one to break the news of the returned people and it’s our pleasure to welcome Zelena Hamilton to the program today.”

The camera angle changes to include a pretty woman in the shot, with wild red hair and enveloped in one of the tightest green dresses Emma’s ever seen. She smiles demurely, though there’s a wicked twinkle in those pale blue eyes.

“Thank you. It’s my pleasure to be here.”

The anchor nods at her, and then looks back to the camera. “Our second guest is exclusive to today’s show, and we are so thrilled to welcome him to the program. He is the commander of the Department of Missing and Found Persons and has been involved with the returnees since the very beginning. Welcome to the program, Commander Gold.”

Emma’s eyes widen, and she gapes as the camera pans to Gold. He looks as smooth as the first time she met him, calmly nodding in greeting to the anchor.

_Gold_ , on a news show?

Shit, things must really be bad if _he_ has to do damage control.

“Before we begin,” the anchor says, “let’s refresh everyone again with what’s started this whole debacle. Let’s watch.”

Emma cringes before the video even starts – this was what she was afraid of. Watching herself on TV and she has to resist the urge to just watch through her fingers as the whole scene, starting from when she marched out to confront Killian and Will, plays out, including all their dialogue. When it’s finally over, with the video ending with Emma dragging Killian further away from the gates, the screen flashes back to the anchor, Zelena, and Gold.

“So, Zelena, let’s start with you. What are your thoughts after watching that?”

“Well, obviously, I find the video very disturbing,” she says, voice frank with horror that Emma doesn’t find quite sincere. “It’s apparent to me that, whatever is going in your department, Commander Gold, the returned people are being kept there against their will.” 

Gold just shakes his head, a placating smile on his face. “That is incorrect –”

“Isn’t this America?” Zelena continues, voice raising to speak over his attempted interruption. “The land of the free? Freedom seems a right these returnees have been denied.” 

Gold shakes his head again, that same patronizing smile on his face but Emma sees the darkness he directs at Zelena in his cold gaze. “You’re mistaken, Ms. Hamilton. The returnees are _not_ being held against their will, they are merely being kept safe until a time when we see fit to –”

“But, Commander Gold,” the anchor interrupts, “we all saw that video. The two returnees were clearly concerned with _imprisonment_ , and your agent herself said she was trying to prevent such a thing from happening. The returnees’ fears cannot be based on nothing.”

Gold just smiles again, that slithery, serpentine smile that makes goosebumps raise on Emma’s arms even through the television screen. “As I said and will continue to say, our returnees are not being imprisoned. The privacy of our returnees is paramount, and while I will not disclose specifics about the two seen in that video, I will say that they are from a long time ago and I believe that that has played a role in their misunderstanding of their situation. And,” Gold continues, as the camera flashes back to show both the anchor and Zelena looking thoroughly unconvinced. “I am pleased to announce that many of our returnees are in the process of finalizing their departure from our department.”

Emma raises her eyebrows. There had been talk of this before her … _leave of absence_ , but they were not at the point where it was even a possibility on the horizon yet. Though she supposes that with the outcry over the videos and the general assumption now that the returnees are indeed being held prisoner, it was only a matter of time. And though pleased he says, Emma hears the sour note to Gold’s voice – its still obviously going far too quickly for his taste.

“Well, this is awfully convenient timing, Commander Gold,” Zelena comments, with a derisive laugh. “Just as your gates are nearly overrun by protestors, you start releasing your prisoners – oh, pardon me. _Returnees_.”

Gold narrows his eyes – _if looks could kill_ , Emma thinks – but doesn’t comment on Zelena’s pointed misspeak when he speaks again.

“Coincidence, I assure you, Ms. Hamilton. Before we allow any of our clients return to their lives, including those people we have helped far prior to this incident, we have rigorous protocols in place to ensure that those who leave us will be headed into a good situation, where their mental and physical health can continue to be monitored. That process was, of course, enhanced in this case, hence the longer time frame our clients have spent with us. Imagine if you had grown up in, say, the 1930s and then to be suddenly here today – our returnees did not only need physical and mental health evaluations, but course to learn the basics of modern life now.”

Zelena still looks unimpressed, and she and Gold keep arguing for several more minutes, each growing more incensed, but Emma doesn’t get to see whether or not they fully dissolve into a shouting match before there’s a sharp knock on her door, the agency’s driver here to collect her.

And its probably because Emma’s so anxious to both get back to work and dreading to see what awaits her there (and who all is mad at her) that the drive to Storybrooke seems to take far longer than it should. As they draw nearer and nearer, more and more of the streets are crowded with people, with signs reading such things as _FREEDOM FOR ALL_ and _WE STAND WITH THE RETURNEES_ held up high. Though the windows are tinted, Emma still shrinks back into her seat as they pass the larger and more vocal portions of the crowd, and thankfully the police have corralled them far enough away from Storybrooke itself that the car is easily able to glide onto the grounds without much fuss.

Emma hops out of the car the moment it rolls to a stop in front of her office building, hurrying inside. She’s determined to just get to her office before any of the agents see her and she has to suffer their glares, but she’s hardly made it a more than a few steps towards the grand staircase to her office before someone is calling out her name.

“Emma!”

She turns, gritting her teeth, but instead of an angry mob, she sees Robin and Anna hurrying up to her from across the foyer. And to her surprise, both of them have wide smiles on their faces and Anna even envelops her into a hug when they reach her.

She's not quick enough to school her features and Robin catches her confused expression as Anna releases her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Uh, nothing. I just – well, I guess I thought you’d all be pretty mad at me,” she admits, now feeling a bit foolish. But then she thinks of Graham, and she shakes her head - no, there is something going on. “Like Graham: he called me earlier and ... and okay, I guess he does have a right to blame me, but still I wasn’t expecting –”

Anna shakes her head vehemently. “No, no, Emma. _No_ one blames you. In fact,” she adds, and here her expression shifts guiltily, “I think we all blame ourselves. We got distracted with the returnees at the party when we should’ve been watching them. You’re basically the only one who was actually doing your job.”

Emma frowns, still unconvinced – that still doesn’t explain Graham’s mood. “I suppose.”

Anna smiles gently at her, and she squeezes Emma’s arm in comfort. “Maybe its one of his cases? I know … I know some of the agents have been having a tough time with some of them.” Her voice shifts a bit, and Emma’s gaze flickers to her. Anna’s eyes seem very faraway, her usually cheery expression fading just the slightest, but then the moment passes and she’s smiling again. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, okay, Emma?”

She nods, curious as to what case of Anna’s is clearly being so tough on her, but then Robin is launching into an explanation of everything she’s missed, and she’s got no time to dwell on it.

To her relief, she learns that Regina is still in charge of Storybrooke and, in fact, Gold’s been gone since the morning of February 2nd, the day after the skating party. He’d had to go back down to D.C. to deal with some of the head honchos there, and has been on the media circuit ever since, trying to get the public back on their side. Though, if the newscast Emma saw earlier and the continued presence of protesters outside, he’s doing a crap job at it.

“Speaking of the news,” Anna puts in when Robin pauses to take a breath, and her voices has taken on a distinctly strained tone. “You should probably know … yesterday, one of the returnees was trying to turn the volume up on a movie he was watching, but he’s from the 1900s – can’t be helped that he doesn’t know what he’s doing – and he somehow screwed it up, and changed the setting and found a news channel. So now the rest of the returnees all know now too.”

Emma sighs; just what they need. “Great. And what do they think?”

“Well,” Anna says, squirming a bit in discomfort, and Robin just shakes his head darkly. “Let’s just say Jones and Scarlet are going to be in isolation for a bit longer now.”

Emma's not even willing to imagine what the uproar yesterday had looked like, and she just sighs again. Besides that, the mention of Killian has brought his fate back to the forefront of her mind; she’s relieved to hear he’s still only in isolation – and not off in a jail cell – and she’s still got more questions.

“Speaking of Killian, do you know how’s he doing?”

Robin shakes his head. “No. I tried to check on him for you, but the guards won’t let me see him. Only primary contacts are allowed right now, so I know Belle’s seen him a few times, and she said he seems okay. But now that you’re here, I bet they’ll let you in.”

Emma nods, and that’s her mind made up. She remembers how grumpy he’d been last time he was kept in isolation, and after a failed escape attempt, she imagines he’ll be even grouchier now and in dire need of some company other than just Belle.

And if there's some part of her that wants to see him for any other reason – like trying to figure out what the hell he meant by that touch to her shoulder and standing up to Regina for her before that - well, she doesn’t say any of that to Anna and Robin as she bids them goodbye, turning on her heel and heading right back out the doors she just came in, off to the barracks and off to Killian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering about Zelena's name, I couldn't have her last name be Mills in this story, so I went with the surname of the actress who played the Wicked Witch in the original movie, Margaret Hamilton. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. chapter viii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the long wait; real life got in my way. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter :)

The isolation room is as quiet as Killian remembers.

He lies on the thin cot in his cell, staring up at the ceiling with his arms crossed over his chest. It’s late in the morning on his fourth day of returning to the isolation room, and apart from the meals shoved under door from a disgruntled guard and the two times Belle has come to see him, Killian’s been alone in the silence. Like last time he was in this isolation cell, his only company is his mind and its twisting, racing thoughts.

And twisting they are.

Though it was apparent from the moment he stood on that cold lakeshore that this world is different than anything he’s ever known, Killian has spent a lot of these last few days ruminating on his long-held beliefs that he’s finally accepting no longer hold.

Well, mostly _one_ particular belief.

He’s not one for believing government officials – not after the catastrophe that led to Liam’s death all those years ago – but the way Swan talked on the way to the sergeant’s office (all _we’ve all got a past_ and _you deserve to have a future here_ ) ... well it’s got Killian thinking that maybe, _maybe_ , they’ve been telling the truth about not being kept a prisoner here indefinitely.

At the very least, he hopes so. Swan’s words of a ‘future’ have been echoing around his mind a lot, yes, but it’s her blunt _your past is gone_ that has hit him the hardest, harder than she probably expected it to, because she’s absolutely right.

Hindsight shows him that even if he had escaped, what would have happened then? He wanted to escape a life of imprisonment, yes, but if Killian is being honest with himself, he’d also wanted to just run from this new future, this new uncertainty at what his life has become. To escape, to try to find some normalcy in this ocean of madness, to return to what his life had been.

But just as Swan said, that life is gone. There’s no _Jolly Roger_ to run to, no crew awaiting his return, no one out there with a thought for him at all. They’re all gone, sea foam and dust now, and Killian is still here.

Though he’s starting to accept that this is his new reality, sometimes he can’t help but wonder if it’s not all made up, if he just lost his mind and ended up in a fantasy. How else can he explain it? In the space of a moment, he lost everything. His home, his crew, his world. Even the loss of material possessions is bothering him; everything he owned has disappeared to the perils of time, including the _Jolly_ , and he’s not seen hide-nor-hair of the clothes or belongings he arrived with. Even just to have those would be a comfort, a marker of what had once been amongst the new, strange reality.

But that’s another reason why he realizes he’s not mad. He couldn’t have come up with the world he’s in now, with their slightly altered language and the advanced medicine and technology he couldn’t even dream up; it’s just not possible to be untrue.

But it is still disconcerting to think he might have gone mad, and while Killian doesn’t have any of his possessions to remind him of his life before all this, he does have one thing – his scars. In this little cell, the scars littering his body remain as a reminder of his past, a physical anchor to the memories he knows in his soul are true.

At the thought, he shifts a bit to rub absently at his left wrist, at a thick scar that wraps nearly around the circumference of his wrist. He has dozens of scars all over – across his back, chest, legs – but the scar on his wrist is the most obvious and grim of them all. His previous clothes had hidden the jagged band of tissue well enough, with the jacket’s thick cuffs and his shirt’s elaborate sleeves, and even the thin blues scrubs had long enough sleeves so no one’s really taken notice of it. The doctor who had examined him in his first few days here had asked about it, but dropped the subject when Killian offered no explanation, only a cold glare as a response.

Not that he doesn’t remember how he nearly lost a hand, mind. No, the memory of that awful day and the horrific pain afterwards is not often far from his mind (and he doubts even a spell of madness could erase it) but it’s not something he was willing to share with a strange doctor. And today, though the feel of the raised tissue usually brings back the flood of pain it caused, it feels more like just a reminder of his past life and what could have been.

And what is gone.

And he could keep running, keep trying to escape back to a life he has lost forever, but no matter how far he searches, how far he tries to regain what once was, there’s no going back to it.

Earlier, during his first stint in these walls, those thoughts had brought nothing but despair, but these days of silence have lightened them; they’re not as heavy and despairing as they were, and if Killian is being honest with himself, he suspects the reason has much to do with Emma Swan and her words: _you deserve to have a future here, in this world, in this place and time._

She said all that even knowing who he is, knowing that he’s a pirate, that his past is full of crime and violence. But she hadn’t condemned him right when she learned who he was. No, she’d known for a long time, and wanted him to have a future here regardless. Still believed he deserved one, that his past didn’t define him.

She still had hope in him.

It’s been a long time since someone has had hope in him.

It’s a strange, unfamiliar feeling, hope. One Killian hasn’t felt in a very long time, and he finds his heart is lighter, his mind less dark, soul less unsettled. Through these last few days, though he’s starting to accept that everything he had is gone, he’s starting to think that perhaps there is some chance of a new beginning here. He hunted for freedom for many years on the high seas ... and maybe there’s still a way he can get in the future again.

But he hasn’t seen Emma Swan in days. Only Belle, and when he asked of Emma, she was mum on the subject. And though hope is unfamiliar, Killian can’t help but hope that he hasn’t ruined things for her here at Storybrooke. The sergeant came across as a strict woman, cold and unmerciful, and more like the tyrannical monarchs of his day than a leader of a (supposedly) compassionate organization. When she’d spoken so snidely to Emma that night of the foiled escape – _I will deal with you in a minute, Agent Swan_ – something in him had snapped.

It was one thing for _him_ to be punished for trying to escape; Killian’s no stranger to punishment but he’s never been comfortable with someone else getting in trouble for his own misdeeds. It is the epitome of bad form, as it were.

With Liam, he’d been the same way. Defiant in the face of his own punishment, sneering and ready to take anything, but swamped by guilt when his brother was punished for whatever he’d done too. And with Emma Swan, sitting there with him in front of Regina as if she’d been an accomplice in it all, the same swooping feeling of guilt and anger had rushed through him.

 _He_ was the one who broke the rules, and he meant what he said to Regina; Emma was doing her due diligence and duty in stopping him and Scarlet. He saw her suspicion all week, knew she was aware they were up to something, but he had decided to ignore it, to hope that she would be distracted enough to not notice their disappearance.

Again, with hindsight, he realizes he’s an idiot. Of course she would notice; Swan is both eagle-eyed and intuitive, and nothing gets past her.

Not even, apparently, his true identity.

That starts him thinking again about how she still gave him a chance, even knowing who he was, and it’s selfish, but Killian can’t help but think it – a part of him hopes Swan didn’t lose her position just so he can see her again.

And then, as if summoned by his thoughts, there’s a clattering of footsteps outside his door, heavy thuds he’s come to associate with the guards and a lighter, more determined stride he doesn’t immediately recognize.

“Wait, please, we’re under orders not to –”

“I’m his primary agent,” says an angry voice, one Killian instantly recognizes as _hers_ , and he’s instantly sitting up, staring at the cold door in surprise, rushes of _she hasn’t been sacked_ and _she’s still here_ flooding through him. “I just want to take him for a walk.”

“Yes, but Sergeant Mills was quite particular that he wasn’t to be let out just yet –”

“I’ll deal with Regina,” she snaps back, and its as if Killian can see the icy glare she’s depositing on the guard. “Now open the door.”

There’s another few quiet moments until he hears the lock on his door click, and the door swings open.

It’s just the guard at first, shooting him an annoyed look, but then Emma Swan is moving into the room, blocking him from sight. And though she looks irritated too, her smile is warm when she bestows it upon Killian, and Killian can’t help but think, if this really is a fantastical dream, he doesn’t ever want to wake up again.

“Hi, Killian.”

He only manages to reply “Hello” before she’s crossing the room, gesturing for him to get up and picking up his sweater from the single chair in the room.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk. It’s stuffy in here.”

He hesitates for only a second, before he’s on his feet, taking the sweater from her hands and swinging it over his shoulders.

“Brilliant idea.”

The guard looks furious as Emma leads him out of the cell, but he doesn’t say anything, and no one else stops them as she leads the way downstairs. They pause briefly at the main reception desk to get Killian a warm jacket and hat, the receptionist raising his eyebrows at them, but Emma ignores him and leads the way out onto the grounds.

The cool rays of winter sunlight light the outdoor scene in a calm glow, and Killian’s mood, which has been exponentially increased by Emma’s presence, brightens even more as the crisp air hits his face.

They walk in silence for a few moments, Killian enjoying the outdoor world again, the cool breeze, the crunch of snow underfoot. There are a couple other returnees out for strolls too, but whenever he and Emma pass them on the path, they send Killian annoyed glares. After they pass a particularly unfriendly trio of older men who step out of his way as if he’s carrying some disease, Killian finally clues in.

“I suspect they’ve learned of my transgression the other night,” he murmurs, and Emma’s grimace confirms it.

“Yeah. That’s why you’re still in solitary for now.”

He nods, and his brightened mood dims a bit, disheartened that he’s going to have to return to his sad little cell at the end of the walk. “I see.”

Emma sighs, sensing the change in his mood. “Hopefully it won’t be for too long, just until things settle down a bit. I know you don’t like it in there. And besides that, I know we’re trying to transition to more independent living for all the returnees – I mean, getting you a place to live that’s not on Storybrooke. But that’s still being worked out, so for now you’re still in isolation.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? You’re going to let me go?”

Emma frowns, and a flash of hurt crosses her features. “I told you, Killian. We were never going to keep you here forever. It was only until –”

“I know, I know,” he interrupts, “but that is still the plan? Even after ... the other night?”

Her expressions softens, and she nods. “Yeah. I mean, now that the whole world knows what you look like, it might slow things down a bit. Regina will want to make sure it’s safe for you to leave, but yes. You’re not a prisoner here, Killian.”

“I know, Swan.”

That makes Emma look to him, and he realizes he’s just admitted he basically trusts Storybrooke’s word. He’s not sure if he wants to take it back, or to quickly play it off as a quip, but then Emma’s smiling widely, and he suddenly is happy she knows that he is starting to trust them, to trust her.

“I’m glad to hear that. And I’m glad I was able to get you of that cell for even a little bit.”

He nods in agreement, and then realizes suddenly that while his punishment of the cell is still in effect, he still doesn’t know what _her_ consequences were for his actions. She’s walking briskly, rubbing her hands together to warm them in the cold wind, and Killian reaches out a hand, resting it on her arm to stop her trek.

“Swan, wait. I just wanted to say – I don’t know what your sergeant did to you because of my actions, but I want to apologize if my actions had any detrimental consequences for you. That was not my intention.”

For a moment, a brief flicker of surprise crosses her features, but then she smiles. “Thanks for saying that, and it’s okay, Killian. I just had to stay home for a few days, and besides ... I get why you tried to escape.”

Now it’s his turn to be surprised. “You do?”

She shrugs, and for some reason, a light blush of red colours her cheeks. “Yeah. I get feeling trapped in a place you feel you don’t belong in, and wanting to escape. I know I called you an idiot that night – sorry, by the way – but ... well, I understand. So, really, it’s okay.”

Her words ring of familiarity with the idea of being locked away, and Killian realizes that while Emma Swan knows a lot about him, he hardly knows anything about her or her own backstory.

“I meant what I said the other day, Swan. You are a mystery. I’ve not met anyone like you before.”

She smiles, and for a moment, they’re just standing there, his hand on her arm, and he can’t help but think how utterly beautiful she is when she smiles. It’s not like he hasn’t ever noticed how beautiful she is before – it is truly impossible to overlook – but in this winter light her hair flickers between platinum and gold, catching the light as if it too were made of snowflakes; her green eyes seem to gleam as if they’re composed of sea ice and her smile makes the frigid air around them feel several degrees warmer.

Of their own volition, his eyes flicker down to her lips for the briefest of moments, and he wonders what it would be like to press his lips against hers, to see if her smile is as warm as it seems. Emma must’ve seen his glance too because her cheeks redden, eyes widen, and she’s stepping back, his hand falling from her arm, and the moment is broken.

“Well,” she says, lightly as she starts to walk again, Killian a beat behind, “I can’t say I’ve ever met a pirate either.”

“And certainly not one like me,” Killian adds quickly, unable to stop himself, and that makes Emma roll her eyes in good humour.

“Right, of course.”

Speaking of being a pirate ... that reminds him.

“Swan,” he says, and she glances to him, a look of caution to her eyes.

“Yeah?”

“On my first night here, my possessions were confiscated. Will I ever have them returned?”

All traces of wariness disappear from her features, and she’s instantly the professional again. “Oh yes, of course. I don’t know about your clothes, I think those were all destroyed for contamination purposes –” Killian sighs dramatically and Emma cracks a smile – “but I know they kept stuff they could more easily clean. I can go down to Collection and see for you; I know a couple other returnees have their stuff back already. What things did you have?”

“Not much,” he says, and he hopes it doesn’t sound bitter, because he’s trying not to be, trying to not focus on all the things he lost. He supposes it was lucky that he was so sentimental that he kept most of his valuables on him at all times, for at least he hasn’t lost it all. “A sword, a dagger, a handful of rings, an old satchel’s insignia, a flask of rum –”

Emma snorts, and at Killian’s raised eyebrow, says, “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just – well, there’s a stereotype about pirates and rum. I don’t even know why I’m surprised.”

Killian chuckles, and he can already imagine what it must be, just knowing the other pirates of his time and his very own crew, not to mention himself. “I like to think I helped with that stereotype.”

Emma hums. “270-year-old rum, I bet that’s something. I hope they didn’t dump it.” The thought hadn’t occurred to Killian and it must show on his face because Emma laughs, and adds, “If they did, we’ll replace it. We’ve got some good rum today too.” 

“I’m going to hold you to that, Swan.”

They walk in silence for a bit longer, companionable in the quiet. After a few moments, Emma says, “Tell me more about being a pirate. I’ve always been interested in them. What was it like?”

Killian tenses; though Emma did stand up for him knowing he’s a pirate, he’s not quite ready to share the rest of the darkness that’s shrouded his life, and he replies, quickly, “It seems you know everything about me already.” Then he frowns. “That reminds me – how _do_ you know so much?”

To his relief, though Emma’s eyes are knowing, she lets him switch the subject, and she says, “Remember those moon landing videos we watched? They’re on what’s called the Internet. There’s information on everything on there, so I just Googled your name.”

He blinks at her, running over the foreign word in his mind and coming up blank. “Googled?”

Emma chuckles, but it’s not unkind, and her brow crinkles as she tries to figure out how to explain this to him. “Yeah. Um – it’s a search engine? A way to search the ... global library.”

Sometimes Killian’s reminded of just how different this world is, and he shakes his head. “Well I don’t have access to such a thing, so we’ll have to do things the old fashioned way with you.”

“Me?” Emma echoes, and she sends him a strange look. “What do you mean?”

“Come now, Swan. You know me, and I hardly know you. I think it’s only fair if you tell me about yourself too.”

She stares at him, and shakes her head with a snort. “I’m not that interesting, Killian.”

“You certainly are,” he retorts instantly. “You’re the most interesting person I’ve met here, Swan, and I’ve met a woman who thinks she fell down a rabbit hole and went to a different world.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are pink again and Killian’s not sure if its from the biting wind or the effect his words had on her. “Well, you’ve got to admit, after time travelling to the future, falling down rabbit holes doesn’t sound so far fetched anymore.”

Killian sees the deflection and he raises an eyebrow at her. “Humour me, Swan. You’re the only company I’ve had for days who doesn’t glare at me. Well, not _all the time_ ,” he amends, as she deposits a pointed glare upon him. “Besides ... you have said that I should try to learn about this world. How can I do that without talking to the people who’ve lived here?”

Emma pauses again, and he thinks she’ll deflect again, roll her eyes and tell him to shut up, but to his surprise, she says, a bit hesitantly, “What do you want to know?”

 _Everything_.

The word pops into his mind, unbidden and earnest, but Emma still looks like a skittish animal, ready to bolt, so he says instead, “Whatever you want to tell me. We can start with an easy question, if you like. How did you start working here?”

Emma lets out a short laugh. “That is definitely not an easy question.”

She doesn’t offer anymore than that, and Killian lets the silence hang between them. For as much as he still doesn’t know Emma, she’s something of an open book – hidden behind walls, secretive with any part of her own story, and pushing her will only make her scramble further away.

He knows because that’s who he is too.

And Emma must know that too, because she wanted to let him tell his own story, not to assume she knew it all from her Google. Even just now, when she asked more about his past, she let his own deflection stand. So Killian decides to let her keep her secrets, decides he can wait until she wants to tell him in her own time too.

“It’s okay, Swan,” he says, and Emma glances to him with guarded eyes. “I was just teasing. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up in a small smile of gratitude, and they continue their walk in silence for a bit more. They’re rounding the small pathway, coming back up to the barracks, when Emma surprises him again and speaks.

“No, you’re right. The best way to get to know this world is to get to know what it’s like here.” He looks to her, but she’s silent again, clearly at war with herself in her head, but then she shakes it slightly, straightening her back. When she speaks her voice is tight, controlled, and she says, “When I was a baby, I was left on the side of a road by my parents.”

Whatever he was expecting her to say, that is not it and he nearly stumbles on the icy path. “You were _– what?_ As an _infant_?”

Emma nods, and though her face is solemn and apparently unbothered, she does run her hand up her arm in discomfort; the pain of that abandonment seemingly not as far from the surface as she would like to show.

“Yeah. Luckily a little boy found me pretty quickly afterwards and then the police brought me here to Storybrooke after I spent a few days in the hospital. Apparently I was pretty cold when they found me cause it was October, even with the baby blanket I had.” She pauses, a sad expression twisting her features, and then she shakes her head. “Anyways, when I was looking for a job a few years ago, my old boss re-introduced me to this place. It seemed like fate.”

Killian still can’t believe her story, and he, for the first time in a long time, is lost for words. He understands that not every woman wants their child, but even in his day children would be dropped at orphanages or on doorsteps – somewhere they’d be discovered relatively quickly, at the very least. But to leave Emma beside a road in cool autumn, alone ... well that certainly puts his own abandonment into perspective. He at least had known familial love for a short time before it all fell apart, but this world’s cruelty had dealt Emma a cold blow before she even had a chance.

He reaches out, and grasps Emma’s hand with his own, tugging her to a stop again. Both of their hands are icy cold, and she starts a little at the movement, sending him a startled look, but doesn’t pull away as Killian runs his thumb over the back of her hand in a comforting circle.

“That is truly awful, Emma,” he says, and he really means it. “I am sorry you had to go through such an ordeal.”

A sad smile lingers on her face for a moment, and she nods in recognition. But then she straightens abruptly, and pulls her hand away, stuffing both of them into her jacket pockets.

“I mean, it was a long time ago, and working here helps,” she says, and her voice sounds distant now, as if she was talking of nothing more than the weather. “It feels like, in a way, I can help people who were like me. To try to reunite them with their families, or if they’ve got no family, to find them a home where they can try to be happy again.” 

Killian nods; he can certainly see the passion Emma has for her job here and all the returnees, even if right now she’s looking incredibly solemn and serious. “I think you’re doing an amazing job at that, Swan. Even with bullheaded pirates like me getting in your way.”

Emma laughs at that, and sends him an appreciative smile as they start walking again. They don’t bring up child abandonment again, and their walk back to the barracks is full of light-hearted subjects, such as Killian’s favourite type of rum (“Haitian and Barbadian rums are delicious, but nothing can best Jamaican”) and how exactly they combatted scurvy on the ships (“Potatoes and oranges, Swan. Potatoes and oranges.”)

The guard seated by his isolation room lets out a sigh of relief when Killian and Emma finally come around the final corner, though Killian’s mood darkens as he realizes he’s going to have to say goodbye to her now and hello to solitude again.

The guard opens the door, gesturing Killian in without a word, but Emma rests her hand on his arm to pause him. Killian glances back, and she smiles gently at him.

“See you later, okay? I’ll do what I can to get you out of here, but hopefully we can at least go for another walk tomorrow.”

He nods, and though he’s not looking forward to another day of silence, he has tomorrow to look forward to now too. “Thanks, Swan. See you tomorrow.”

She smiles again in departure, removing her hand, and the moment Killian’s back in his room, the door is swinging shut, and Killian’s alone in silence again. Only this time, with the winter freshness still stinging his cheeks and the lingering scent of Emma’s perfume, it doesn’t feel so lonely.

<> 

The guard clearly wants to give Emma a lecture the moment the door to Killian’s room is shut, but she ignores him and hurries back out of the barracks, walking briskly across the grounds to her office.

She rubs her arms as she walks, chilled by the cold, and if she’s honest, a bit thrown by the walk with Killian. She went into it expecting him to be grouchy and moody, but he was the opposite, happy to see her, sociable, and, most surprising, apologetic.

And more than anything, she’s surprised with herself. It’s always been easy to talk with him about this world, to explain new things to him, but she’s surprised how easy she found it to talk to him about other things too.

Like her past – where had _that_ come from? Though she had shied away at first, retreated behind her trusty walls, there’d be a stronger urge to not hide, to share her story with someone, with him. And Emma doesn’t talk about that with anyone and certainly not with her clients here in Storybrooke. But it was like when he apologized for getting her into trouble, one of the protective walls encasing her had cracked.

A slim crack, the beginnings of a break, but still – a crack, because, well, no one has ever apologized for their own actions getting her into trouble.

And then it was only too easy to open to him. Like she said, she knows what it’s like to feel trapped. More than that even, she knows how it is to be broken and hurt and scared by what’s happened to her that she can’t trust anyone around her, even those who just want to help. Him taking the step to trust her, to say that he knows Storybrooke isn’t trying to keep him here as a prisoner ... well it made Emma want to take a step forward too, to trust him with a part of herself too.

She realizes as she finally enters her office building that she didn’t ask him why he had brushed her shoulder in Regina’s office, nor why he stood up for her to the sergeant. But she recalls the brief moment his eyes had moved to her lips and the look in his eyes and well ... that’s all the answer Emma needs.

That makes her quicken her step to her office, needing some privacy and a moment alone to sort through her emotions.

But, as usual for Emma, sorting through emotions means clamping down on them and pretending she doesn’t have any. When she arrives, she pushes all of the thoughts aside and instead, she focuses on trying to figure out a way to get Killian out of isolation because that’s easy, that’s just tactics, that’s something she can do without any silly _emotion_ getting in the way.

She first calls Regina, but she doesn’t answer, so Emma calls Belle instead. The counsellors have more control over this area, being in charge of mental health and all, so Emma hopes Belle can do something more than her.

And luckily Belle answers, but they only talk briefly as she’s headed to an appointment with another returnee. Emma outlines why she thinks Killian should be allowed out sooner – if the guard at Killian’s door is any indication, they’re going to stick to him like glue now, so its doubtful he’ll get in trouble with any of the other returnees. As well, if they’re still trying to convince him he’s not a prisoner, this is the way to do it, and even more importantly – Emma doesn’t want him to have to spend any more time in a little cell than he has too.

To her relief, Belle agrees, and says she’ll do what she can do to get it all sorted. Emma thanks her, and after they hang up, she’s only just picked up a file folder to review another case, still standing, when there’s a soft knock on her door.

The door is half-ajar, and to her surprise, its Graham standing there. She recalls his cool attitude from their phone call that morning, and she can’t help the wave of apprehension that washes over her at the sight of him. His stiff posture, shoulders tight and tense, a file folder clutched in white-knuckled hands, doesn’t help either.

“Emma? Can I talk to you for a moment?”

At her nod, he steps into the room, twisting to shut the door softly behind him; that increases Emma’s certainty that she’s not going to like this conversation. He stops when he’s standing across from her, her cluttered desk a barrier between them, his fingers fiddling with the edges of the file folder in nervousness, and he gestures to her desk chair.

“You might want to sit down.”

Emma sets her own folder down and crosses her arms across her chest, remaining standing. “What’s going on, Graham?”

He hands Emma the file folder he brought with him. There’s two names typed across the label, _DAVID NOLAN_ and _MARY MARGARET BLANCHARD_ , and while Emma doesn’t know who David Nolan is, she does remember the small dark haired returnee named Mary Margaret. She’s the returnee Emma collided with down at the lake, and spoke to briefly with Graham a few weeks ago, the one who was looking for her daughter.

“Is everything okay?” Emma asks, flipping absently through a few of the pages. The folder is full of counsellor and doctor’s notes she just skims over, as her attention lingers on a few sheets that have complicated looking laboratory jargon on them, the words _genetic counsellor_ under a signature on the bottom, and she frowns. She doesn’t know what that means, but it can’t be good.

“Has something happened to them?”

Graham lets out a sort of strangled cough, and Emma glances up sharply to him. “Not – not to _them_ , per se.” He pauses, making Emma’s eyes narrow even more, and then continues, in a strained voice, “You – you remember that day when you met Mary Margaret in the cafeteria with me? And how she mentioned – how she mentioned she was looking for her daughter?”

Emma nods, slowly, and the memory of that conversation floats to the forefront of her mind. She doesn’t think much of it, not sure why Graham’s brought it up, until a particular line stands out to her –

_It’s just my daughter. Her name was – is – Emma too._

Goosebumps trickle down her spine, and she has to suppress a shiver. Coincidence, she thinks firmly, and trying to prove it to herself, to have Graham cull her terrifying train of thought, she demands, “What about the daughter?”

He hesitates again. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”

Emma just glares at him in response, and he sighs.

“Okay, okay.” He pauses again, chewing on his words. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Emma. I’ve been trying to come up with a way all morning. We did so many tests, and I didn’t believe it at first either, because I mean, what are the chances, after all this time and in this way? But all the tests came back positive, and we even checked things over with the genetics team a few times to be sure and they’ve assured us the tests are accurate –”

He’s rambling, and though Emma’s starting to feel a heavy pressure in her chest, a dam about to burst, he hasn’t said _it_ yet and that means there’s still a chance she’s misunderstanding, that her whole world isn’t about to flip in a moment –

“ _Graham_. What are you talking about? Who is their daughter?”

He takes a deep breath, rambling stopping in an instant, and he says, “Emma – it’s you.”


	9. chapter ix

_October 22, 1983_

The day arrives with an icy wind that howls all through the early morning hours, startling Mary Margaret awake and keeping her that way for hours. She can’t even toss and turn – being nine months pregnant has severely limited her ability to move around – so she spends most of the night just staring at the ceiling and hoping the weather will break soon.

The baby’s not due for another week, but they’ve only got David’s stepfather’s old truck to get them to the hospital, and the heating thing’s been broken in that thing longer than she can even remember. Not to mention that the nearest hospital is in the next town over, meaning it’s going to be a very cold ride there if this weather doesn’t start to warm up.

Shivers run up her arms then, even in the warm apartment, and she scrubs at her arms but to no avail. She’s felt a little unsettled for days –pre-baby jitters, she’s sure – and she figures the thought of having to be in labour in a freezing cold car for the near hour trip is making her even more anxious.

Even as the room begins to lighten with day approaching, she lies in bed for a bit longer, trying to get even a few minutes of sleep to make herself feel a bit better. But it’s no use, not with the wind still screaming, and she sighs.

No chance of a warm day today, it seems.

She shifts a bit, trying to get comfortable, but sends out a huff of annoyance when every position somehow manages to make it worse. She glances beside her, to where David is still peacefully asleep, and though she’s annoyed that _he_ is comfortable, she sends him a fond smile, running her swollen fingers through his hair. He can sleep through anything, even through a howling storm that at times sounded like it was going to rip the roof off; she wonders whether that will hold true when they’ve got a screaming infant in only a week’s time.

At the thought, the baby stretches, hitting out at her ribs and she grimaces. She is so ready for this kid to get out of her, not only so she’s not pregnant anymore, but so that she can finally meet her daughter, the child she’s been dreaming of ever since she found out they were going to have a baby.

 _Emma_.

Perhaps the baby can sense Mary Margaret’s thoughts, because she receives another kick to her ribs. This one has her nearly gasping out in pain, and she runs her hand down across her belly, trying to soothe the baby within.

But the baby seems restless this morning, twisting and turning, and pushing, and _jeez_ , that is a _lot_ of pressure – and _oh crap_.

“David,” she whispers, still unsure if what she’s feeling is right and then – _yep_ , that’s what the books said would happen. Pressure, a _pop_ and – yep. That’s it.

Her water just broke.

“David!”

He jolts awake, and flips to stare at her blearily, still half-asleep. “What? What’s wrong?”

“The baby,” Mary Margaret says, through a grimace, pressing her hands to her pyjama pants, them coming away damp and she tries not to suck in too hysterical of a breath. “She’s coming.”

It takes a moment for David to process the words, and then he’s on his feet, dragging half the covers off the bed and jostling Mary Margaret enough to make her groan. “What – _now_?”

“Yes,” Mary Margaret says, gritting her teeth. “ _Now._ ”

He gapes at her for a second, and then springs into action. “Okay. I’ll go start the truck, you make sure to grab –”

He’s already halfway to the door but Mary Margaret calls him back. “David! Help me up first!”

Once she’s up – having to pause halfway as the first of what she assumes will be many contractions hit her – and David’s out the door to start the car, she stumbles to the bathroom. She changes out of her soaked pyjamas and into set of warmer fleece pants and tugs a pale blue sweater over her head. It hardly fits over her belly, but it’s cozy and familiar, and she hopes somehow that something familiar will help settle her anxiety, which has just shot through the roof at the realization that, _oh my god, the baby is coming_.

She pauses by her dresser, hand reaching automatically for the small soap dish she keeps her everyday jewellery in. Her fingers have been far too swollen lately for her to wear her wedding ring and though she’s usually left it in its dish the past couple of days, she can’t imagine not having it when her daughter is born.

But, to her surprise, the ring isn’t in the dish.

David comes bursting back into the apartment, cheeks flushed. “Okay, I started the truck, it’s so cold out there, here’s your jacket. Mary Margaret? What – what are you doing?”

“My wedding ring,” Mary Margret answers, still frowning at her dresser. Its sudden disappearance isn’t helping her anxiety, and her brow furrows. “It’s not here.”

David moves to stand behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, and though she can sense his impatience, she appreciates the warm, gentle gesture.

“Okay, let’s think. Where did you last see it?”

She gestures to the dresser, to an empty porcelain dish. “I put it here a while ago. My fingers are too swollen for it, so I took it off but ...” She shakes her head, wracking her mind but _no_ , she definitely put the ring there. She frowns. “I wanted to bring it with us to the hospital. Your mother ... she would’ve wanted it to be with us when the baby’s born.”

Though she can’t see David’s face, she can feel him smile and he presses a kiss to her hair. “My mother would be just happy to know that the baby’s almost here. But,” he adds, his grip tightening enough to steer Mary Margaret away from the dresser and towards the door. “She wouldn’t be very happy if the baby is born on the road because we didn’t make it to the hospital in time. Now, come on. We’ll find it when we’re home.”

Mary Margaret sighs as David helps her with her jacket, but as she surveys the small loft, realizing that it’s the last time it’ll ever be just the two of them, she spots the baby blanket she’s been dreaming of giving her daughter, still resting on top of the fresh laundry she did a few days ago that she’s had no energy to put away.

“Wait!” She waddles away from David, ignoring his sigh of impatience, and picks up the blanket from the laundry basket. She holds it out pointedly towards him, raising an eyebrow. “We almost forgot her blanket.”

David smiles at that, and it’s the same smile he wore the day they got married, a sort of awestruck realization that _this is my life now_. “No, we can’t forget that.” He holds out his hand to her as she returns to his side. “Ready?”

She smiles back, intertwining their fingers together as she takes his hand. “Ready.”

He’s leading her out of the loft then, slowly down the many steps ( _they really need a place with an elevator_ ) and then out to the parking lot. The wind is strong down here, and with Mary Margaret as unbalanced as she is already is, David has to hold her upright so she doesn’t topple over.

The old truck is idling, and once Mary Margaret is in, David sets about tucking all the blankets they keep in the truck as their heating source around her, and then scurries to his own side of the truck.

They’re still mostly in their pyjamas, and Mary Margaret realizes she didn’t grab anything, not her purse, not her carefully packed hospital bag, and she doubts David even remembered to grab his wallet. She thinks about telling David to stop, to run back and get everything, but he’s driving already now and as they pull onto the main road, a contraction hits her that nearly leaves her breathless and all thoughts of preparation flow out of her mind.

She’s not sure it’s supposed to be this painful this early and ... _wow,_ they need to get to that hospital _now._

“Doing okay?” David asks, reaching his hand out for her to grip as the contraction takes its hold of her. When it has passed, she manages a smile, and though the uneasiness is still prominent in the back of her mind, she shoves it aside, focusing instead of what’s to come.

“Yeah. But – we need to get to the hospital.” 

David sends her a look, and presses his foot on the gas even harder. Mary Margaret leans back against the seat, closing her eyes and taking some deep breaths. Forget returning for the hospital bag; there will be extra things at the hospital she’s sure, and David can always return for the essentials later. For now, she’s got everything she needs, everything that matters in this moment: her husband’s hand in one of her own and her daughter’s baby blanket clutched in the other. And in a few short hours, they’ll have their daughter, and that’s when their future, their _family_ , can finally begin.

<> 

_Today_

Emma feels like she’s been run over by an avalanche, crushed by the mountain Graham’s just unleashed on her, leaving her breathless with the suffocating weight of numbness and shock pressing down upon her.

 _Emma – it’s you_.

“What?” she manages finally, her voice strangled and she shakes her head. “I’m – _what_?”

Graham launches into an explanation, his voice flooded with relief that he’s gotten this off his chest. “I couldn’t believe it either – I mean, what are the chances? – but I’ve been looking through records for weeks now. All the details match up. You’re in the system from when you were here as a baby, and you were born in October 1983, your name is Emma –”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she interrupts, aware her voice is louder than she means it to be, but there’s a rush of noise in her head that she can barely hear over. Her heart feels like it's about to pound right out of her chest, and she leans forward, gripping the edge of her desk. “Lots of babies are named Emma and were born in October, that doesn’t prove –”

“We did a DNA test.”

She looks back up to him, bewildered, and for a moment her astonishment and growing horror at what he’s saying disappears in a surge of anger. “You – how did you get my DNA? I didn’t give my permission for anything like that!”

Graham shifts uncomfortably, and he doesn’t meet her eyes. “Remember that time when we all had to submit a cheek swab, just in case a crime scene became contaminated during an investigation so they could rule our DNA out? Well, that sample is in the government database now, and it's just standard procedure to run it against the databases – so we did. And, Emma, I know it’s crazy, but listen, please listen. It’s true. You’re their daughter ... they’re your parents.”

A loud silence fills the office after that. Emma gapes at him, uncomprehending and unbelieving and unwilling to have anything, _anything,_ to do with what he’s saying. She finally looks away, stepping away from her desk, and backing up to the window, staring outside at the winter scene, and trying to take several deep, calming breaths.

_No, no, no, there’s no way this is happening, it’s all a misunderstanding, a mismatch, a joke, a –_

“They want to meet you,” Graham says then, his voice quiet.

Emma’s neck cracks as she whips around to look at him. “You already told them?”

“I had to. They’re smart, they knew something was different when I saw them this morning, and they were desperate for any news, they’ve been searching for you for so long –”

Before she can stop herself, Emma lets out a high pitched laugh, descending full into hysterical territory now, and Graham abruptly falls silent. 

“They’ve been searching for a long time? They’ve been back for a month! I’ve been wondering about them for _twenty-eight years_! You had no right to tell them! I deserved to know this before –” she shakes her head in disgust, and glares at Graham. “I can’t believe you. How could you do this to me?”

“I didn’t tell them it was you,” he replies indignantly. “I said I’d found their daughter, but I didn’t tell them they’d already met you. I said I had to talk to you first, and that you may not want to meet them. I just ...” he trails off, and shrugs sadly. “I just wanted them to know you were okay.”

Emma has never felt so far from _okay_ in her life.

When she woke up this morning, all she was thinking about was how happy she was to get back to work, to get back to her normal routine. Or, at least, what passes for normal these days; dealing with people from hundred of years ago and trying to help them adjust to their new world.

She wasn’t expecting to have to adjust to her _own_ new reality.

This must be the universe’s idea of a cosmic joke. There’s no other explanation. What are the chances that, Emma Swan, who happened to be abandoned in suspicious circumstances at birth, winds up working at an organization that takes in lost people? That this organization is the one to rescue the thousands of people who slipped through a time glitch or were magically transported to the future or abducted by aliens or _who even knows what_? That _her parents_ , the ones missing for nearly three decades, the ones she spent her whole life thinking didn’t want her, were a part of that science fiction movie?

“You don’t have to meet them if you don’t want to,” Graham says quietly, and Emma’s eyes snap back to him. “They would be unhappy, but they would understand. They know it’s been twenty-eight years for you. They know ... they know you think the worst of them.”

Somewhere, deep in the fury and haze that’s overtaken her mind, Emma appreciates what he’s trying to do, in giving her an out, but there’s nothing for it. Even if he hadn’t told them first, there’s no way she can’t _not_ meet them now. Not when she works in the same place they’re living in, not when they’d put the pieces together when she runs out of the room the next time they cross paths.

She shakes her head, and looks back out of the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. “Can you just – give me a minute?”

Graham nods and is gone from her office instantly, shutting the door behind him. Emma remains standing by the window for a moment, still staring at the outside scene. A couple other returnees are out for walks now, and all Emma can think is that that was her, just hours ago. As far as she knew, things were normal – or, rather, as normal as they are around here. Talking to a centuries old pirate about his favourite rum and ways to combat scurvy, and then back to trying to figure a way to get him out of isolation.

And now ...

From day one, Emma knew it was her against the world. How else can it be, when you’re alone from the moment you’re born, when foster family after foster family sends you back, when the first man you fall in love with sends you to jail for his crime? Though Henry’s presence in her life and her job at Storybrooke have helped stitch together some of the broken pieces of her heart, there’s still suture marks she’s sure won’t ever fully heal, open gashes left by the hand that fate dealt her.

It’s a cold, cruel world, but Emma’s used to it. Or at least, she was used to the world she thought it was. One where it was just her unfortunate life, with betrayal and sadness and disappointment as common to her as anything.

And then the world changed, in a flash of white, bright light, and suddenly she doesn’t know how to deal with it anymore.

Emma sighs, and pulls her head away from the window, glancing to the door instead. Graham’s shadow is out there, and a flare of anger rises up in her at the sight. He _never_ should have told Mary Margaret and David without talking to her first. Even though she’s not a returnee, this impacts her life as much as does theirs, and she deserved to know about what was going on far beforehand.

But at the same time ... she gets why he told them. She’s been with the returnees since the beginning; she knows the desperation they all have for any chance at news at a family member and the crush they all feel when they learn there’s no one out there. Graham, as their agent, was probably just so thrilled that he could give them a good answer that he couldn’t help himself.

But still. It’s not fair. Emma deserved to know. She reasons he probably just didn’t want to get her hopes up in case it was wrong, and then a swoop of guilt hits her, clenching her stomach into knots.

Is that what she should be feeling? Happy? Relieved? Excited? Is that what anyone else in her situation would be feeling?

Emma just feels numb.

She briefly considers marching out of her office to tell Graham to stuff it, he can tell Mary Margaret and David that she’ll consider meeting them, but not now and not anytime in the near future, but she dismisses that thought as soon as it comes. While the world has flipped upside down, Emma herself hasn’t. She knows herself too well – if she doesn’t go meet these people right now, she’ll run and never look back.

And her life, her job here at Storybrooke, the people she’s met here ... it’s too valuable to run away from.

So she pushes herself off the wall, and marches to the door, flinging it open.

“Alright,” she says, through gritted teeth, glaring Graham down. “Let’s get this over with.”

<> 

An hour later, after Graham managed to secure a private interview room and after Emma ducked into the nearby bathroom to take several deep breaths, unable to do anything but breathe and stare at her reflection in the mirror, she walked into the private room and sat down across from ... _them._

Of all the insane things that have happened since the returnees dropped out of the sky nearly a month ago now, this is definitely the strangest.

It’s just Emma and them in the room, and no one has said anything since she entered the room, though she felt their eyes lock onto her the moment she opened the door. She thought for a terrified moment that they were going to stand up and try to hug her, but her quick steps to her chair quickly dispelled that.

Now, seated across from them and under their intense gaze, Emma feels oddly like a bug under a magnifying glass on a hot summer day, and she tries to resist the urge to squirm. She’s also trying not to stare back at them, but she did just spend about five minutes staring at her reflection in the mirror, so it’s pretty hard not to see the similarities between her and the people across from her.

Of course, before she didn’t notice it, or at least didn’t pay attention to it, but if not for their colouring, she and Mary Margaret could be twins. The same green eyes, the same button chin, the same nose, the same arch to their eyebrows. Emma’s hair is fair like David’s, though hers is more platinum than his gold, but still – that’s clearly where her fair genes came from.

The fact that they’re also around her age and apparently her _parents_ is really freaking her out.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says finally, a wide, gentle smile on her face that makes Emma feel like a total jerk for flinching as her name comes out of the woman’s mouth. “I can’t believe this is really happening. It’s so good to meet you. To _really_ meet you,” she clarifies quickly. “I never would have expected you – you to be working here, right near us all this time.”

 _All this time._ Emma has to force herself not to snort. She knows it’s not their fault she was alone for 28 years, but seriously ‘all this time?’ She wants to point out that it’s been _way_ longer for her, but it’s her anger and shock talking, she knows, so instead she just nods.

“I – yeah. This is strange.”

They fall into a silence again, David and Mary Margaret just staring at her. But Emma can’t take it anymore, feeling suddenly overwhelmed at the fact that these people are her _parents_. These are the people she’d cried herself to sleep over too many countless nights as a child, the people she’s resented for years, the ones she’s yearned for. She takes a deep breath, willing the tears pricking at the corner of her eyes to not leak out, to betray her in this moment when she feels like all her protective walls have receded.

“I don’t know what to say,” she manages finally. “I never expected this.” She waves her hand vaguely at them across from her, still not sure what her life has just become. “No offense, but I gave up on you guys a long time ago.”

This time it’s David and Mary Margaret who flinch. “We – we thought it might be that way,” David admits. “It’s – Emma, you have to know. We did not want to leave you. Whatever happened to us – it wasn’t our choice.”

Emma nods, and _god_ , she knows that but _still._

“Tell us about you,” Mary Margaret says then, with a smile torn between hesitant and hopeful. “Um ... what happened to you? Were ...” She pauses, her hopeful smile dropping a bit, “Were you adopted?”

Emma shakes her head. “I grew up in the foster system,” she says, bluntly, but then tries not to wince as David and Mary Margaret exchange wide-eyed glances. She instantly regrets saying it so coldly, because _damn it_ , she knows it wasn’t their fault. “So ... uh, no. No parents.”

They exchange another look, both looking utterly crestfallen. On some instinct, Mary Margaret reaches out her hand across the table to where Emma’s hand is resting. But Emma panics, and slides her hand away, dropping it to her lap, and tries not to feel like a monster when Mary Margaret’s expression saddens and David grabs her hand with his own instead.

They’re quiet again, Emma at a loss of what to say. She is nearly considering just getting to her feet and fleeing, but then David asks, hesitantly. “Do you ... do you have any questions for us?”

Does she have any questions? Of course, she has questions. But there isn’t enough time in the world to ask all her questions, nor does she think they have any of the answers she’d want.

(Like why the universe seems to have a grudge against her, for one.)

Emma looks away from them, staring at the blank wall for so long her eyes start to burn and water, and she finally settles on a topic that’s at least somewhat answerable.

 “The truck. The one I guess I was born in? It was unregistered, and without registration, they had no idea who I was. That’s why – that’s why they put me in the foster system.”

Mary Margaret and David look at each other, eyes wide, and then David shakes his head.

“That truck ... it was my stepfather’s. He got it used several years ago – or decades ago now, I mean – and ... I didn’t know it wasn’t registered. We only ever used it around town, and he was buddies with the sheriff so I guess ... he just never bothered.”

Emma stares back at David, and she just shakes her head, unable to not think that an oversight like that had left her stranded in the foster system for years, that something as simple as ‘never bothering’ had ruined her life.

“So you had a stepfather,” she says, unable to keep the bite from her voice. “And he didn’t think it odd that his stepson just vanished with a pregnant wife and his truck, never to return? Didn’t _any_ of your family think it a bit strange?”

“We didn’t have any other family,” Mary Margaret says softly. “I was an only child, and my parents have been gone for a long time. David’s stepfather ... well, his only act of familial love towards us was letting us use his truck.”

“Emma, you were better off not with him,” David adds instantly. “He was not a nice man. You would not have been happy with him.”

But David hasn’t realized what Emma has – even if his stepfather was a monster, he could’ve been the connection to another relative, even some distant relative on Mary Margaret’s side of the family. Though her parents were dead, there could have been cousins or aunts or uncles or _someone_ who cared enough about her to raise her.

She could have grown up with her family.

She wouldn’t have grown up alone.

Abruptly, Emma realizes how bad of an idea this was as a swell of emotion threatens to send her right over the edge. She never should have agreed to come see them, not today when she just had this mountain dropped on her only an hour ago. She should’ve gone home, gone for a drink, gone for a run, done _anything_ but come here and meet these people.

She stands then, bumping the table with her knees, but she hardly even registers the pain. She’s backing away, unable to look at them, to see what she’s sure are more crestfallen expressions that she just cannot handle.

“I just – I just need some time, okay? This is – this is a lot right now.”

She’s out the door before they can even reply, barreling past a lingering Graham, ignoring his call of “wait, Emma!” and right out of the building.

The cold wind stings her cheeks as she storms through the grounds, headed towards the parking lot, and her knees are hurting from where she hit them, but Emma can’t focus on anything but getting to her car, to the parking lot, and _out of here._ Her day’s not over for another few hours, but she cannot stay here anymore, not where Graham is, not where _they_ are.

She jogs to the parking lot, eyes searching for her yellow car, but when she surveys the sea of black SUV, she remembers with a sickening lurch – today is the day she got driven to Storybrooke instead of taking her own car.

Of all the days she didn’t drive, _today_ just has to be the one.

Emma turns on her heel, heading back to the main building to get one of the receptionists to sign her out a car for the night. They hate doing this – Emma knows from the time her Bug broke down a few years ago – but she is not going to put up with it tonight. 

She’s so engrossed in her thoughts that she doesn’t even realize someone is walking out of the main doors as she’s going into them, and they collide in the middle of the doorway. She glances up, brought back to the present, to realize it’s Robin Locksley she nearly tackled.

“Oh, Robin, sorry, I didn’t see you –”

“All good.” His hands steady her shoulders, but instead of releasing his grip, his hands tighten and he frowns. “Hey, hey. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Emma doesn’t even have the words. She shakes Robin’s grip off, and runs a hand over her forehead in agitation.

“I’m fine – I just – I’m just not feeling well. I need to go home, I can’t be here anymore. But I didn’t drive today so I have to go find someone to give me keys to a car, and they better not give me hell about it because I am not in the mood right now.”

He regards her silently, eyes narrowed, and looks like he wants to ask more questions, but instead just shakes his head. “Don’t bother. I can drive you,” he offers, and Emma’s head snaps up. “I’m leaving early too, actually. Roland’s school just called, he’s not feeling good either.”

She blinks at him, thrown by the offer but if he’s offering, she’s not going to turn it down. “Oh. Okay. Sure. Thanks.”

Robin leads her to an old green sedan in the parking lot out front. Emma gives him her address, but other than that, the ride starts out quiet. Emma sinks lower into her seat as they pass the rattlesnake den of reporters outside, shielding her face against the white flashes of the photographers. As they clear them, heading out onto the freeway and to Emma’s apartment, Robin finally breaks the silence.

“Did I ever tell you why I started working at Storybrooke?”

Emma looks to Robin, and realizes that she doesn’t know. He started after her, by a few years, but she never inquired, just accepted him as a new co-worker and kept on with her life.

“It was because of my wife,” Robin continues, quietly. “She disappeared about five years ago. We’d just had Roland, and one night, she went out to the store to get some more formula. And then ... she never came back.”

Emma leans her head against the back of her seat, and closes her eyes. “Robin. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know,” Robin says, with a kind smile. “I didn’t tell anyone here about it. I didn’t know what happened to her, so it was easier to not talk about it.” He pauses for a moment, his hands tightening on the wheel enough to turn his knuckles white. “We’d tried a long time to have Roland, and though she loved him so much, I knew she was overwhelmed. So when she didn’t come home, I thought maybe she just needed a few days, that she couldn’t handle everything right then. But then when she still didn’t return after a few more days ... well, that wasn’t like Marian.

“So then I called the police,” he continues, after a long moment. “They saw her on the security camera outside the grocery store, heading back to her car. But then the tape became corrupted, they said. Some anomaly that blanked out the entire frame and when it restored itself, Marian was gone and her car was still there.”

Emma’s stomach clenches, and she has a horrible, sinking feeling she knows exactly what anomaly the cops saw. “Let me guess,” she whispers. “It was a white light.”

He just shakes his head sadly. “At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. And the police couldn’t find any leads from then on, and as time went on, I just ... had to move on. Got a job here, and worked and raised Roland, and didn’t have time to dwell on what could have been, where she was, what had happened. Until ... well, until that night on the lake changed everything.”

Emma shakes her head. Up until an hour ago, she would’ve been surprised by this story, but now ... well, now she’s just thinking that everyone who works at Storybrooke is somehow being taunted by the universe. Anna, with her sister. Robin, with his wife. And her, with her parents.

“I’ve kept it quiet,” Robin continues, with a sad tone to his voice, and Emma focuses on him. “Because it’s been tough. It’s been five years, I thought she was gone, and Roland didn’t remember her.”

He pauses, and then, to Emma’s surprise, he smiles, a wide smile that lights up his whole face. “But it’s also been great. A miracle. I thought I lost my wife forever, I thought Roland would never get to know his mother.” He chuckles quietly, once, and shakes his head with a fond smile. “This is probably his reason for a ‘sick day’ today. He wants to spend every minute with her.”

Emma smiles.

(This kind of outcome is exactly the reason Graham told Mary Margaret and David.)

They spend the rest of the ride in silence, and as Robin finally pulls the car to a stop in front of Emma’s apartment complex, he turns to her and regards her seriously.

“I don’t know what happened with you back at Storybrooke, and you don’t have to tell me. But what I saw there ... well, it was the same reaction I had when Marian’s agent told me. So – I just want you to know, that whatever happened, _whoever_ happened, you’re not alone.”

Emma smiles again, and nods. “Thanks for the ride, Robin.”

She waves goodbye to him as he pulls away, and then clambers up the stairs to her apartment. Her mind is swirling with Robin’s tale; she knows he told her his story so she’d have some hope in the news she just learned, that she’d see the good side in all of this.

And maybe one day, in the _far_ distant future, she will. But Emma’s not ready for that yet.

She finally reaches her apartment, and she tries to ignore how badly her hand is shaking as she unlocks the door. The moment she steps into her apartment, she spots the scattered schoolbooks and video game boxes, she stops in her tracks and swears.

Henry.

She doesn’t just have _her_ to think about. This is going to change his life too.

Maybe it’s the coward’s way out, but Emma can barely handle her own emotions right now, she’s not sure how she’ll be able to be there for Henry too. Emma already knows that she won’t be able to pretend everything is fine tonight and she doesn’t want to tell him anything yet.

So she pulls out her cellphone, searching through her contacts for someone to take him for the night. Ruby and her granny are out – they’d just bring Henry here. Instead, she selects the mom of one of Henry’s good friends Avery, and pulls the phone to her ear.

“Hey, this is Emma Swan, Henry’s mom. Yeah, everything’s fine. I’m sorry for the late notice, but I have a huge favour to ask. Can Henry stay over with you guys tonight? I – something’s come up, and I don’t think ... I don’t think I’ll be home in time tonight for Henry.”

It’s a lie, of course, but she doesn’t know what else to say. Avery’s mom seems to pick up that there’s something else Emma’s not saying, but thankfully she doesn’t press it, just agrees to get Henry from school.

She hangs up, and sighs as the guilt washes over her; Henry will be concerned, she knows, but she just can’t tonight.

She shoves one of his sweaters off one of the kitchen chairs, and collapses in it, resting her head on the table. The silence weighs heavy on her after the whirlwind of today, and Emma sighs. She closes her eyes, relishing in the quiet, and though she means only to stay there for a moment, the room is dark when she opens her eyes again, and she jolts in alarm.

Automatically she reaches for her phone, and she’s surprised that it’s already 8pm. There’s a text from Avery’s mom from a few hours ago, saying _I’ve got Henry! He and Avery are excited for the impromptu sleepover._

She texts back a thanks, and then stretches, cracking the uncomfortable kink in her neck. She presses the palms of her hands into her eyes, pressing until she sees the bright bursts of stars and then gets to her feet.

She feels vaguely like a zombie, following the beck and call of her rumbling stomach, trudging over to the refrigerator and peering into it. But nothing in the fridge even remotely appeals to her and she shuts it with a sigh. As she leans against the fridge, the cold steel against her back, she spots the few empty wine bottles by the sink she hasn’t had the chance to take out to recycling yet and instantly her mind wants only one thing.

Not wine, no, she needs something stronger. She thinks about earlier this afternoon – before everything exploded in her face – when she was out walking with Killian Jones, laughing and joking about how, of course, a pirate loves rum.

Yeah, she could do with a glass of rum.  

Or several.

She stands on her tiptoes to reach her liquor cabinet, pushing past the bottles of wine and tequila and vodka out of the way, searching for the dusty rum bottle at the back. It’s smaller than her other liquor bottles, about half the size, and it’s more than half empty, the amber liquid sloshing around the empty space with loud _glugs_ as Emma clambers down from the chair. 

She sets it on the counter, and then starts rustling through the dish cabinet for a suitable glass. It’s too bad that the bottle’s nearly half gone already – it’s hardly gonna last her more than one drink and she needs about ten times that – and when she turns around she nearly drops her glass.

The bottle, which only seconds ago Emma could’ve _sworn_ was nearly empty, is completely full.

She blinks several times, frowning and shaking her head. She wonders briefly if she’s still half-asleep from that catnap or if she’s just downright lost her mind after the events of today. But whatever it is, Emma doesn’t care nor have the emotional energy to waste dwelling on it. She pops the bottle open, pours herself a drink, and then downs it.

And then another one.

And another.

At some point, she moves to the couch, settling down with the bottle on the table and her glass in her hand. She turns the TV on, wanting something mindless to occupy her, but she’s barely got on the episode of some crime drama for five minutes before the sound of gunfire and car chases make her head hurt and she turns the TV off.

She stares at the blank TV screen, as the buzz of the alcohol kicks in. She’s not sure how long she just sits there, staring in silence, as her mind runs over and over the events of today. The whole point of a drink was to get her mind off of it, but there’s no way that’s happening. She can see _them_ so vividly in her mind, staring at her with wide, hopeful eyes and then the deflated expressions when she fled.

When Graham said he’d found their daughter, Emma bets they were hoping for a joyous reunion, hugs and tears and laughs. She wonders how bitter it must feel to realize that it’s _her_ they got instead, with her issues and fears and walls.

She sighs, and leans back against the couch, closing her eyes. She means to only rest them for a minute, but it’s like before; one minute she’s closing her eyes and the next she’s waking up to bright apartment, morning sun streaming in and the shrill ringing of her cellphone piercing through her aching head like a sword.

For a moment she just lies there, feeling completely out of sorts and wondering what she’s doing on her couch. Her phone stops ringing, and she nearly just drifts back off to sleep until it starts ringing again, somehow sounding more insistent this time.

She sighs, and reaches out to the coffee table, fumbling for it. “Hello?”

“Emma, where are you?” Belle’s voice comes through the phone, and even though everything still feels hazy and out of focus, Emma can tell that she’s incredibly annoyed.

“I – where am I?”

That’s a damn good question. She sits up and then instantly regrets it, a sharp pain lancing through her head. She groans, rubbing her hand across her forehead, as she blearily looks out around her. She’s still in her living room and the rum bottle, shining as its remaining amber liquid catches the light, sits on the coffee table across from her couch. The events of the previous day come rushing back to her and she groans again.

“I sent you an email yesterday, Emma,” Belle says shortly. “I’m booked all morning with appointments, I can’t go get Killian and they won’t let him out without one of us. I had to _beg_ Regina to even consider letting him out in the first place, and if now we don’t even go get him, she’s going to be furious.”

Emma blinks, and then swears.

Right. Killian.

After everything that happened yesterday, she totally forgot about him and how all she wanted yesterday was to get him back into the general population of returnees.

She twists herself off the couch, nearly stumbling on the rug as she scrambles to her feet and pressing her hand to her forehead again as the effect of so many drinks on an empty stomach hits her.

“Oh god. Okay, ugh. I’ll be right there, Belle. Give me – give me, twenty minutes, okay? What time is he supposed to get out?”

“In half an hour,” she replies. “So hurry, okay?”

Emma nods, even though Belle can’t see her, and hangs up. She runs around her apartment in a haze, stripping off yesterday’s clothing, rumpled and creased from sleep, and throwing on new clothes, and grabs her car keys from where she left them yesterday morning.

She’s not drunk anymore – though she’s already feeling the hangover from hell – and it doesn’t even cross her mind to call back to Storybrooke to see if they’re gonna send her a car. She flies down the stairs to her car, unlocking the door, and it’s only when she’s sitting in the Bug, ready to go when she remembers just who else is waiting for her at Storybrooke.

She grits her teeth, and forcefully starts the car, as if doing so can prove to herself that she’s not anxious or afraid _at all_ of possibly running into Mary Margaret and David. That this is just a normal day, headed off to work to get Killian Jones out of another bad situation he’s gotten himself into. That nothing out of sorts will happen today, and everything will be just _fine,_ no new ‘life-shattering’ revelations or anything of the sort.

Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! I know no Killian in this one, but he'll be back next time :)


	10. chapter x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long! Writing my CSBB took over my life, and then grad school did. Hopefully you'll enjoy this chapter, I made it a long one in apology! Thanks for all the support and interest in this, it really means a lot to me :)

Leaving brakes squealing and horns honking behind her, Emma floors it all the way to Storybrooke. Fingers tight around the steering wheel, her eyes keep drifting to the old clock in the dashboard, the minutes ticking by tauntingly as she fights through the morning traffic.

When Storybrooke looms over the horizon, the usual encampment of media snapping their photographs, Emma lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She drives past the media, their constant presence almost as mundane as the guards outside the gates, and though she’s usually cautious of drawing attention to herself after her previous front-page appearance, Emma doesn’t bother shielding her face as she drives through Storybrooke’s gates, too focused on the time slipping away.

Once security has waved her through, it’s a quick jaunt to a free parking stall, and she throws open the car door. She groans as she gets to her feet, leaning out to grab onto the roof as a rush of nausea and dizziness flow over her at the sudden movement. She presses a hand to her aching head, swallowing down the terrible taste of hangover, and grimaces as she slams the car door shut.

At the same moment, one of the overhead powerline sparks, sending several cascading sparks onto the ground around her. Emma flinches in alarm as they _pop_ and flash, and glares at them as they fade into the asphalt, as if it’s their fault her headache is so bad.

Swallowing the nausea again and hoping her stomach will settle down soon, Emma powerwalks across the campus towards the barracks, glancing down at her phone as the time keeps tick-tocking away. The barracks are quiet at this time in the morning, most of the returnees still asleep or just arriving at the breakfast hall. As she enters the foyer, Emma spots the blond head of David Nolan at one of the cafeteria tables; she teleports up the stairs to the isolation rooms after that.

The guard on duty is one she doesn’t know, and he greets her with a sour sigh as he hauls himself to his feet, shaking his head.

“You’re late, Agent Swan.”

Emma grits her teeth, and places her hands on her hips. “Skip the lecture, I’m here now.”

The guard rolls his eyes but leads her down to Killian’s cell without another word. Emma pushes past him when the door’s unlocked before he can let out more snide comments, and steps into the cell.

Killian is lying on his cot, facing away from the door and reading a book called _A History of Nautical Advancements_. He glances over as the door opens, clearly annoyed at the interruption, but his eyes widen as he realizes it’s her, and the expression vanishes. He nearly drops the book on his chest as he swings his legs around and scrambles to a seated position.

“You’re here early,” he says and his face lights up in a smile. “Another walk?”

She opens her mouth, and then closes it again. After yesterday’s upheaval, she’d completely forgotten that was her last conversation with Killian.

Everything had seemed so simple before.

Killian takes in her silence, the smile slipping from his face. “Is everything alright, Swan?”

 _Swan_.

The name hits her like a punch to the stomach, all the air forced from her lungs in a gasp of surprise. _Swan_ , the name she chose herself because she had no family to give her one of her own, the name she made up as a reference to a nursery rhyme after a cold night out on the streets.

 _Emma Nolan,_ that should’ve been her. Or _Emma Blanchard_ , if they’d chosen that. _Emma Blanchard-Nolan_ , even. Anything but _Swan_ , the unloved, unwanted orphan.

Killian gets to his feet, expression intense and searching, and he crosses the room to stand in front of her. “Emma, what’s wrong?”

The guard is staring at her too now, and Emma straightens her back and forces a smile onto her face.  

“Nothing. Come on. Belle got you released back to the rest of the returnees so I’ll walk you down to your room.”

He doesn’t move, regarding her seriously, and Emma feels distinctly like he’s trying to read her mind. But she keeps her face carefully cool, meeting his gaze evenly, and eventually he nods, picking up the book and a sweater from the chair in the corner, and follows her out of the room.

Along with the guard, they walk in silence down the hall, their footsteps echoing and loud in the quiet hallway. They leave the guard at the reception desk, and the moment they start down the stairs to the other quarters, Killian speaks.

“What is going on?”

“Nothing,” she says again, too quickly, and he shoots her an unimpressed look.

“Humour me, Swan.”

Emma grits her teeth; she’s already in such a bad mood she almost snaps at him to leave it alone, but something stops her before she does. It’s not his fault her life was upturned, and really, if anyone can understand what it’s like to have their life changed in an instant, it’s Killian.

They’re on one of the landings of the staircase, and Emma touches Killian’s arm to stop him. For now, they have a moment of privacy, no other returnees or guards around, and he faces her with a furrowed brow. Emma still hesitates a second longer, biting her lip and trying to find words to explain the impossible, and then takes a deep breath.

“Remember ... remember how I told you that when I was a baby, I was found on the side of the road?”

He nods slowly, confused, and Emma almost loses her nerve. What she’s about to say is confusing; it’s terrifying and bewildering and _impossible_ and speaking it out loud – that makes it _real_.

“Well ... I know it sounds crazy, but it turns out my – my parents were like you. They didn’t abandon me there on purpose, they were taken by that white light right after I was born.”

Killian’s eyes widen, and he blinks back at her in surprise. “They – really?”

She nods, and the next words spill out from her, unbidden, as if a lock is broken on whatever chest she’s tried so hard to keep closed for so long.

“I know, what are the chances, right? I’m at Storybrooke as a baby because my parents left me, and now I’m working here and they’re back, as if no time passed at all for them. All my life I wondered about them, wondered why they cared enough to knit me a blanket but not enough to leave me at a hospital, and turns out they did want me, but were abducted by aliens or sent through time by magic or whatever the hell happened to you all. I hated and resented them for years, and it wasn’t even their _fault_.”

Emma’s voice cracks on the last word, and she clears her throat, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She looks away from Killian, down to the floor, staring hard at the cold linoleum and willing the stinging tears in her eyes to stay put.

Killian doesn’t say anything for a few moments. When he does speak, his voice is quiet and soft. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

She glances up to him, taken aback. _I’m sorry_ doesn’t sound like the best response to someone who found their parents after a lifetime of searching, but somehow, it’s the most comforting thing she’s heard since finding this out.

As Emma tries to sort through her emotions enough to come up with a coherent response, Killian shifts his weight and one of his sleeves pulls back, revealing a jagged scar around his left wrist Emma hasn’t seen before. Its a thick band of raised tissue so ragged and rough that before Emma can stop herself, she reaches out to grab his hand, twisting it towards herself so she can get a better look.

“What happened?”

Killian glances down, his mouth dipping into a frown as a shadow crosses over his eyes. “The perils of being a pirate, love.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “This is more than an every day scratch. This looks like you almost lost your hand.”

He tenses, fingers tightening over hers. “It’s an unpleasant tale.”

“I just told you all about my parents who I thought abandoned me on the side of the highway but were really catapulted into the future like you, so I get unpleasant.”

She says it lightly, a small part of her proud that its the first time she’s said the words _my parents_ without either anger or sadness or disbelief, but Killian’s brow furrows even more and he doesn’t offer any more information. More intrigued now, Emma glances down at the scar again, but before she can ask any questions, footsteps echo down the stairwell.

When she looks up, it’s like receiving a punch to the stomach again, as painful as when Killian had said _Swan_ – it’s David and Mary Margaret.

The pair are in deep conversation, coming up the stairs. Emma thinks about diving through the door beside her onto the fifth floor, but David glances up before she can, and his face breaks into a smile.

“Emma!”

She stares back at Mary Margaret and David as they come closer, her heartrate increasing every moment, her thoughts running wilder and more twisted. Running into them when she’s had no time to prepare herself, when she’s already let down her armour enough to reveal a vulnerable part of herself is the absolute worst-case scenario.

“Oh, uh... hi.”

They smile brightly back at her, eyes shining with hope, though David’s gaze does shift over to Killian in question, and Emma realizes she’s still holding onto Killian’s hand. She drops it as if burned, and clears her throat, taking a pointed step away from Killian and nearly crashing into the door behind her.

“Ouch, oh – um, Killian – this is Mary Margaret and David, they’re –”

Her throat closes up as she tries to come up with a way to introduce them that doesn’t make her want to flee, but thankfully Killian’s perceptive. He takes in Emma’s panicked face and the eager ones of Mary Margaret and David, and puts two and two together.

“An honour to meet you,” he says, holding his hand out to them. “Killian Jones.”

Mary Margaret turns to him, as if noticing him for the first time, and accepts his hand with a pleasant, if slightly tentative smile. David, on the other hand, shifts his weight, placing his hands on his hips, and looks Killian up and down.

“Jones, did you say?”

Killian tenses beside her, and Emma supresses a groan. Right. She forgot that all the returnees are angry at him; he hasn’t even made it back to the rest of the returnees, and already she has to deal with hostility and anger towards him.

(Somehow, the fact that it’s coming from David, of all people, makes it ten times worse.)

“Yes,” Killian says, voice crisp. “What of it?”

David crosses his arms across his chest, unaffected by Killian’s cool glare. “You’re the one who almost escaped, right?”

Emma looks over to Killian, wondering what his reaction will be. Though there’s a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, he simply smirks, and says sardonically, “Ah, I see you’ve heard of me.”

“How could we not?” David says, unimpressed. “You’re one of the reasons we’re not allowed to leave Storybrooke yet.”

All traces of humour vanish from Killian, his eyes darkening, and he looks more like the pirate captain he is than Emma’s seen in the past few days. He opens his mouth to retort, but to Emma’s surprise, Mary Margaret steps forward, placing herself in between the two men. She completely ignores the dark glares directed over her shoulder between her husband and Killian, focused on Emma instead.

“Emma, can we talk to you?”

David wrenches his glare away from Killian, looking to Emma too. Her heartrate jumps again, and she shakes her head furiously.

“I’m busy right now, I can’t talk. I have to take Killian to his room, and then –” She trails off, realizing too late she has nothing else planned, and as three people stare back at her, expectantly, she wracks her mind for some excuse. Starting to become increasingly flustered, the memory of Killian talking about wanting his confiscated belongings the other day resurfaces, and she splutters out, “I have to get Killian’s stuff from Collection. So. Sorry.”

David and Mary Margaret exchange a glance, and a sinking feeling of guilt settles over Emma at the heavy disappointment across their faces, and before she can stop herself, she adds, “I can get your stuff too.”

As soon as she says it, she regrets it. But Mary Margaret and David’s eyes light up and Emma can’t back out now. She grits her teeth, and continues in a tight voice, “Make a list of what you want, and give it to Dr. Hopper. He’ll get it to me.”

They nod, and Emma doesn’t give them a chance to keep talking. She grabs Killian’s arm, hauling him after her, far too aware of David and Mary Margaret’s gazes burning a hole in her back. But that same suffocation from yesterday is threatening to overwhelm her and it’s all she can do to drag Killian down the flight of stairs and through the double doors to the fourth floor. She releases his arm the instant they enter the small foyer, marching ahead towards the reception table. He’s silent as he follows her, watching her far too closely as she checks in with the awaiting receptionist for his new room.

Emma ignores him as the woman retreats into a backroom to fetch the keys, tapping her fingers on the desk distractedly, willing her to hurry up so Emma can get out of here, can get back to her office before she falls apart.

Killian frowns at her tapping fingers, and reaches out to rest his hand on hers to stop the tapping. His fingers start to close over hers, calloused and rough, but Emma snatches her hand back, shoving it into the back of her jeans. A shadow crosses over his eyes but the receptionist returns before either of them can say anything, handing the keys to Emma.

“Here you go. Room 414 for you this time, Mr. Jones.”

That breaks Killian out of his frown, and he glares in annoyance at the receptionist as Emma starts down the hallway, muttering ‘it’s _captain’_ as he follows her towards room 414.

This time it’s a private room; Regina wants to keep any more potential collusions of escape with other returnees at a minimum, though Emma somehow doubts Killian will attempt that again anytime soon. The room is small, with a double bed and wobbly night table and a desk and chair under the window, curtains open wide and letting the bright winter sun stream in, and Emma ushers Killian into the room.

“So this is it,” she says, trying to force some cheer into her voice as she waves her hand around the room. “Nice that they gave you a private room this time, isn’t it? I always hated having to share my room when I was growing up. And you’ve got a view of the pond, that’s nice –”

“Swan.”

Emma flinches at her name again and falls silent. Killian steps further into the room, coming to a stop across from her. He surveys her quietly, eyes searching hers, and asks, softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

He gives her a pointed look, an eyebrow raising. “Emma.”

She grits her teeth together, the suffocation creeping back up in her again, and all at once, with her stinging headache and heavy emotions weighing her down, Emma’s had it. She may have wanted to confide in him earlier, but now his warm and understanding eyes make her want to scream. He _gets_ it, and while earlier it had brought her comfort, now she wants to run away from it. He understands why she’s not thrilled at this turn of events, why she would rather run away from her newfound parents than stay a moment in their company, and maybe Emma isn’t ready to face the _why_ of that yet.

Emma drops her hands to her hips, glaring at Killian, and snaps, “No, I don’t want to talk about it, okay? My life got turned upside down in a minute and as I remember, _you_ didn’t want to talk either when that happened to you. So, let it go.”

The warmth in his expression fades, a flash of hurt over his features that makes Emma’s chest feel uncomfortably tight. But as soon as the feeling hits her, she straightens her back, forcing it away. She doesn’t owe Killian an explanation of how she’s feeling; she doesn’t owe him _anything_ other than to do her job as an agent of Storybrooke.

Speaking of ... Emma breathes out hard and runs a hand through her hair, casting a look around the room. She needs an excuse to get out of here, and the one she gave to Mary Margaret and David will work just as well here. On the night stand is a pad of paper and a pen, much like a hotel, and she grabs them up.

“Write what you want from Collection, I’ve got a meeting to get to.”

From the look on Killian’s face, it’s obvious he can tell she’s lying. But he takes the paper and pen from her without question. Emma almost expects a cheeky comment about how this futuristic pen doesn’t need an inkwell, but he doesn’t say anything as he writes only a few words in an elegant script, dropping the pen and holding the paper out to her.

There’s a tense air to the room as she takes it. She has hardly turned around when Killian’s hand closes around her wrist, pausing her.

“When you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

Emma swallows, the tight feeling in her chest alleviating a little bit, though it’s quickly replaced by the nearly overwhelming urge to cry. She doesn’t look at him, only nodding in response, and Killian lets her go, Emma hurrying down the hallway away from his room as quickly as she can.  

<>

Wiping at her stinging eyes, Emma returns to her office, taking the back stairwell out of the barracks in case Mary Margaret and David are lingering around. She feels awful doing so, sneaking around like a teenager leaving the house without permission, avoiding seeing her newfound parents at all costs, and the scummy feeling remains with her all morning.

Dr. Hopper comes to her office about an hour later, delivering the note of items from David and Mary Margaret. He tells her how happy he was to see that they’d found her after all this time, and how glad he was _she_ had found them too; it takes a good deal of effort on her part to not snap at him to get out at that. Instead, she smiles tightly and takes the note, going straight to the Collection room the moment he leaves, more than ready to get this over with. She’s already planned to return their items to Dr. Hopper, and she doesn’t want this note with her any longer than she has to; she already failed at seeing the similarities in her handwriting and Mary Margaret’s, and the note feels like a lead in her pocket as she walks over to Collection.  

The Collection room is in the basement of the only office building that remained unrenovated, a dingy brick building that smells suspiciously like old fish and rotting wood. The room itself is large, with hundreds upon hundreds of hastily constructed plastic shelving units, crammed full of boxes and plastic containers. A guard is seated behind a makeshift desk, reading a magazine, and he glances up as Emma enters.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to pick this stuff up.”

She drops the notes on the table, and the guard surveys them. “Can’t let you take out the weapons, but I’ll get the other things. Wait here.”

He retreats into the aisle of boxes, and Emma taps her fingers on the tabletop as she waits for him, glancing around the room for something to distract her from her own thoughts. The guard’s magazine catches her eye – it’s a tabloid where, of course, the top news story is of Storybrooke, and she quickly glances away, stomach turning; that is _not_ the type of news she wants to distract her. Beside the tabloid is a neatly typed document, half-obscured by another file folder, with a single handwritten scrawl across the middle of the page with a heavy red stamp beside it, and Emma’s interest piques.

Emma glances up, but the guard is still deep within the shelves, and she shifts the file folder off the list, angling it slightly to read it under the dim light.

_RESTRICTED ITEMS – NO REMOVAL FROM COLLECTION WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION_

_Handgun, R2003MH_

_Pistol, R1953LR_

_Knife_ x _2, R1865WS_

_Dagger, R1748KJ_

_Sword, R1748KJ – check out request 2011.02.02 – **APPROVED** _

_Whip, R1968CJ_

_Revolver, R1923CD_

Emma frowns at the list, running her finger over the handwritten addition. _R1748KJ_ – that’s Killian’s identification code. She doesn’t recognize the handwriting beside it, half obscured as it is by the stamp of APPROVED, but a cold chill slithers down her back at the sight of it.

“Alright, I think I got it all.”

Emma looks away as the guard returns, running a hand up her arm to dispel the chill, and focuses on the items laid out in front of her. The guard goes through them with her before she signs the release papers, slipping each item into one of three envelopes as he goes. A handful of rings, a flask (regrettably, empty), and a worn leather insignia with _JONES_ across the back go into the envelope for Killian, crystal earrings and a thin silver watch for Mary Margaret, and a thicker, leather watch and simple gold wedding band for David.

Emma takes the envelopes from him, the identification numbers on stickers catching the dim light, glossy and gleaming. Killian’s number makes her glance back to the restricted items list on the table and she frowns. The chill at the unfamiliar handwriting has passed now, but replaced with a nagging at the back of her mind, and she taps the list to get the guard’s attention.

“I thought restricted items weren’t allowed to be taken out.”

He glances over to the list, but just shrugs. “Eh, it probably had to be returned to decontamination. There’ve been a few things like that. CDC’s a stickler for any sort of weapon that’s come back, something about traces of blood or disease on ‘em or somethin’ like that.”

Emma frowns, unconvinced. She almost asks more, but the guard is back to his tabloid, face hidden behind it. The now infamous image of her and Killian against the snowy background blares back at her, and Emma grimaces. She hesitates for a moment longer, lingering on Killian’s identification number on the list, but reasons that even if she does ask more questions, it’s doubtful the guard will know any of the answers. She leaves the Collection room with a shake of her head, heading towards the barracks with the nagging feeling of something she’s missing following her the whole way back.

<> 

The rest of the afternoon passes slowly for Killian. His new room, though much larger and welcoming than the isolation cell, still feels more like a prison cell than a home and he’d left his room shortly after Emma did, setting out to explore the fourth floor instead of sitting there in silence. Most of the rest of the floor contains rooms like his, private quarters for families taken together or, he supposes, troublemakers like him. At the eastern end of the hall, he finds a good-sized room with strange shiny sofas that squeak when he sits on them and bookcases full of all manner of books, topics ranging from sewing patterns to the classification of minerals and gems.

He selects a book similar to the one he’d been reading that morning, a general overview of ships and their advancements through time, but his focus keeps slipping and returning to Emma. Just a day ago, she’d spoken to him about her past, and even this morning she’d confided in him about her parents. He felt like he was finally starting to really know her, to know the woman behind the title of Agent Swan and the red leather jacket she wears as if it were armour. The armour had cracked, allowing him a glimpse of the woman behind, but had quickly been sealed back up the moment they ran into David and Mary Margaret.

Not that he begrudges her the feeling. Like she said to him, when he was thrown into a world he didn’t know, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it. It stung at first, her swift dismissal, but he gets it; her world has changed now in a way almost too painful to comprehend, and talking about it only makes the hurt real.

He tries to refocus on the book, but after a few unsuccessful hours of reading, Killian’s stomach grumbles take precedence, and he pushes the book aside, heading down to the cafeteria for lunch. The other returnees send him dark glares as he walks through, but that’s nothing new to Killian; he received his fair share of those in his days as a pirate.

With his tray of lunch in hand, he heads to an empty table near the main entrance to the cafeteria and drops down onto the cold bench. As it happens, the food itself sours his mood more than the sideways looks from the other returnees. He’s finally starting to get used to the food here, but right now it’s completely unappetizing. Mushy potatoes with a too-salty gravy, undercooked green beans, and chicken so spiced it makes his mouth burn.

He’s pushing it around with his fork, thinking bitterly how he’d only be able to stomach this with a bottle of rum which isn’t allowed here (he knows, he asked the first day) when a voice startles him out of his thoughts.

“Hi.”

Killian glances up from the plate, and his eyebrows rise. Standing before him, of all people, is Mary Margaret, Emma’s long-lost mother.

“Oh. Hello.”

He glances behind her, unsurprised to see David standing behind her, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. His hackles rise at the unfriendliness in the man’s stance, and he looks back to Mary Margaret, who is smiling widely. But the brightness of the smile doesn’t reach her eyes; instead, she looks like she may burst into tears.

(Her resemblance in that moment to Emma is more than a little startling).

“I hear we’re neighbours now,” Mary Margaret says, her bright voice failing to disguise the nervousness and stress in her tone. “You’re in 414, right? They gave us a room down the hall, in 406.”

Killian nods slowly, setting down the knife and fork; he has a feeling this conversation won’t be just small talk. “Is that so?”

She nods, and exchanges a nervous look with David behind her. “Um, Killian – it is Killian, right?” He nods again, and she continues, “We ... we just wanted to ask, um ... have you seen Emma?”

Ah.

“No, not since she left me in my room. She left rather quickly.”

Mary Margaret’s smiles slips, crumbling away and leaving only despair and anguish. “Oh.” She turns back to David, and says, talking more to herself than either Killian or her husband, “I just ... I don’t understand. I thought she’d be so happy to have us again, but it’s like ... it’s like she would rather we never found her.”

Killian feels a rush of sympathy for them; he has no experience with the parental guilt of leaving a child behind, but he does know how Emma feels, and maybe he can offer them some explanation.

“It’s different for you,” he says gently, and they both glance over to him in surprise. “You’d only been searching for her for a few weeks, but Emma’s been alone her entire life.”

Mary Margaret drops into the seat beside Killian then, her eyes wide and pleading. “How do you know that? Did she tell you something? Do you know why she’s so upset?”

Killian shifts uncomfortably, realizing he’s said more than he should’ve. “That’s not my story to tell. Emma needs to tell you herself.”

The cafeteria doors swing open, and as if on cue, Emma steps into the room. She’s holding three brown envelopes in her hands, looking around the room with a frown. She comes to an abrupt halt as she makes eye contact with him, her eyes widening in panic as she sees Mary Margaret and David right beside him. Killian thinks she’s going to just turn around and leave, but he’s staring too hard at her, and Mary Margaret notices his gaze, and follows it.

“Emma!”

She stiffens. The panic in her eyes quickly disappears, her expression hardening, jaw tightening, and she walks over to them with tense steps.

“Here,” she says, shortly, placing the envelopes down and not looking at any of them. “Got your stuff.”

Mary Margaret gets to her feet and David steps closer to Emma, a look of desperation to them, but Emma backs away, shaking her head.

“I have work to do. Have a good day.”

She turns on her heel, marching out of the cafeteria, the doors swinging shut with a heavy thud behind her, and Killian realizes that her armour of hers isn’t totally back up. It’s still cracked, and now Emma’s just trying desperately to hold it all together.

<> 

Emma doesn’t leave her office for the rest of the afternoon. She’s so on edge now she jumps at every small noise, completely distracted and unable to get any work done. When it starts to approach an acceptable time to leave, she grabs her jacket and scarf and gets off the Storybrooke campus as fast as possible.

Henry’s school is just letting out as she pulls up in front of it, getting out to wait for him. He comes out of the building with a few of his friends, his face lighting up as he sees her, and he runs over.

“Mom!”

“Hey kid,” she greets, pulling him in for a tight hug. “How was school?”

He ignores her question and demands, “Are you okay? Why did you send me to Avery’s last night?”

Emma’s heartbeat quickens; she knew Henry was too clever to not suspect something. She almost brushes it off as another work situation, but the concerned look on his face makes her pause. He’s staring back at her with expectant eyes, and for a brief, terrifying second, Emma sees echoes of Mary Margaret and David’s features in his face. Whatever excuse she was about to say dies on her tongue, and she smiles at him instead, swallowing down the heavy emotions.

“It’s a long story kid. Come on, I’ll tell you when we’re home.”

The ride home feels somehow both agonizingly long and far too quick after that. Henry keeps fidgeting, eager to find out now, but Emma keeps her mouth zipped until they’re home. He bounds into the apartment ahead of her, tugging her over to the couch.

But when they’re both seated, Henry’s eyes shining with eagerness, Emma almost backs out. For so long it’s been just them, the two of them against the world. They’re the only family either of them has had, and now, as much as she can’t believe it or accept it or even _want_ it ... now that’s not true anymore.

She swallows down the growing feeling of panic, and sets her jaw. She’s right; it _isn’t_ true anymore, and Henry deserves to know that.

“You know how I told you I didn’t grow up with a mom or dad, that I was in foster homes, that that’s why you don’t have any grandparents?” Henry nods, brows coming together in confusion, and Emma takes a deep breath. “Well I found out yesterday at work that two of the returnees are ... well, turns out they’re my parents.”

Henry’s mouth drops open, and he gapes at her in silence for a moment. Then he bursts into a smile, and grabs Emma into a hug.

“Really? That’s amazing! You found them! Mom, after all this time! You found your parents, my _grandparents_!” He releases Emma then, jumping to his feet, too overcome with excitement to sit still. “This is amazing! What are their names? What do they look like? When can I meet them? What –”

Emma holds out her hand, grabbing Henry’s arm as he passes to stop his frantic pacing, and shakes her head. “Whoa, kid. I didn’t say anything about meeting them. I only just found out about this myself.”

Henry nods, as if that’s reasonable, but proceeds as if Emma didn’t even speak. “Can I come with you tomorrow to Storybrooke to see them? I have a math test, but Ms. Jameson won’t mind –”

“Henry,” Emma says, more firmly, and she tugs him down onto the couch beside her once more, looking at him seriously. “I don’t know when or even _if_ you can meet them.”

His smile fades, his eyes widening in surprise. “What? But – but why not? They’re our family.”

 _Family_ – Emma snaps.

“They’re strangers,” she spits out, and she instantly regrets it. Henry deflates, sinking back into the couch with a frown, and a surge of guilt rushes through Emma. She sighs, running a hand through her hair, and shakes her head. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that, Henry. I just mean ... I only just found out about this. I don’t know _anything_ about them yet. They _are_ strangers to us right now.”

“But they’re your _parents_ ,” he replies stubbornly. “I don’t understand.”

Emma nods, swallowing hard. “Yes, they are – they are my parents. But they’re not family. Not ... not yet.” Henry’s frown only deepens, all traces of excitement gone now, and Emma shifts to pull him into a hug, hating that she’s put that expression on his face, but she needs him to understand that – “just cause they’re – they’re biologically related to us, doesn’t mean they’re family.”

She pauses, trying to sort through this herself before she says anymore. They are strangers, yes, but that’s only a minor explanation for her caution. Half the reason she ended up keeping Henry instead of putting him up for adoption was she was terrified he would end up like her, lost in the foster system, stuck in a cycle of getting attached to people who, in the end, turned out to not want you after all. She’s been through that and she didn’t want any child, least of all her own, to feel anything remotely like that.

And now with this ... her worst fears could happen after all. He could get attached to David and Mary Margaret without even knowing them, and lose them in the end when they decide Emma isn’t the child they wanted. That she’s too old, too bitter, too hurt.

And that’s the real fear, Emma realizes. The fear that’s she had all this time, that now that she’s finally found them, finally learned the truth, it will all be for naught anyways. They’ll get to know her, she’ll get attached, but then they won’t want her, like every other parent she’d ever known.

Only this time, it’ll hurt Henry too.

“I want to make sure I know who they are before I let you meet them,” Emma says finally. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Henry. Does that make sense?”

She feels him nod against her shoulder. “I guess so.”

She presses a kiss to his head, and they release each other. Henry’s obviously still curious, of course, but he doesn’t ask any questions, somehow sensing Emma won’t say anymore if he asks anyways.

The sky is starting to darken already, and Emma pushes aside all her emotions as she jumps into mom-mode. She warms up some leftovers for dinner, and orders Henry off for a shower while it warms up. When he’s done, it’s a quiet meal, Henry’s mind clearly on the news of his grandparents’ reappearance. He goes to bed shortly afterwards, declining Emma’s suggestion of a movie with a simple shake of his head, and Emma goes to bed herself too

She wraps herself up in the blankets, trying to get to sleep. The exhaustion hits her hard as she lies down, both emotionally and physically. Now, with no one else around, the tears she’s been trying to keep at bay all day suddenly seem as impossible to hold in as a dam, spilling out of her eyes, drawing out a loud sob from her.

And once she starts, there’s no stopping. Emma presses her face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound as to not wake up Henry, but either she’s the worst at crying softly or because he just senses it, her bedroom door creaks open and he comes in. He doesn’t say anything, just crawls into the bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her. Emma scrubs at her eyes, and kisses his head, twisting to hold him tightly.

This world, where her parents never intended to leave her, where they wanted her, where they’re _back_ ... this is her new reality, and tomorrow ... tomorrow she’ll try to face it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought :)


End file.
